of Poker Faces and Dreaming Dreams
by Embracing Inescapable Truth
Summary: "I know you walked away because you thought there wasn't a place for you in her life Shelby, and maybe you were right. But there isn't just a place anymore, there's a great gaping hole that only you can even begin to fill. She needs you."
1. of Dentists and Denial, part I

Hi (: Thanks for taking the time to have a look in on my story. I won't waffle, but I'll just give you a quick rundown of what I'm trying to do here in case you like to know that kind of thing. I wanted to write a story about Rachel and Shelby's relationship and essentially that's what this is; following the death of Rachel's fathers she and Shelby are forced together and must try to overcome the tragedy and build something between them. At the same time, I wanted to write a story about _Glee_, not just about two characters, because I think much of the beauty of Glee lies in the group dynamic. This is my attempt at trying to join what seemed to me to be two very conflicting aims, and I'm really not convinced of how successful it's been, or whether they detract from each other, but I'm posting it anyway as it's been fun to plot out.

Logistics wise, there are five chapters, each told from the point of view of a different character. Each chapter is split into two (potentially three for some but I'm not entirely sure) giving a total of around ten parts. It's not all written yet but it _is_ all plotted, so I hope to keep to a reasonable schedule. It's set at the start of the groups' junior year, and everything that happened in season 1 stands, except Beth was adopted by a different family, not Shelby, and Shelby didn't resign as VA's coach. There are a couple of songs in later chapters, but as I've discovered I'm rubbish at trying to incorporate songs into writing, so they'll be few and far between.

I hope you all enjoy reading my little experiment. It's my first Glee fic and my first multi-part in a _long_ time, so we'll just have to see how it goes. Please feel free to review, be it positive or constructive criticism. This first part is very much setting the scene, so my apologies if it drags, please do stick with it!

**Will: of Dentists and Denial, part I**

All things considered, William Schuester loves his job.

Certainly, it is far from perfect. While other teachers might moan about having to spend such extended periods of time with teenagers, plague-of-society-and-cause-of-all-wrongs-in-the-world, for him it is the sheer _bureaucracy_. Excuse him for his naivety, but he'd gone into teaching fully expecting to spend most of his time doing just that. Instead he finds himself spending an increasing number of hours filling in accident forms (it's hardly his fault Rachel has a tendency to be slightly over-enthusiastic when wheeling Artie about the stage) and performing other similarly mindless tasks. Despite this, as September and a new year approaches, Will finds himself eagerly anticipating the hours he will spend at McKinley High. His summer has been a restless one, marred with thoughts of his failed marriage and failed relationship, and the prospect of burying himself in work is an appealing one. Hell, he even finds himself looking forward to his near daily showdown with Sue; it will give him an outlet for the pent up irritation.

Most of all though, Will can't wait to get back to his Glee kids. The few weeks post-regionals had been hard on all of them, with the promise of continued funding doing little to lessen the blow of the loss once the elation had worn off. It had been of little surprise to Will that it was Rachel who eventually decided that enough was enough, striding into rehearsal one day for all the world as if they'd _won_, telling her team that if they were going to take Carmel next year they sure as hell better get a move on, before belting out a show stopping performance of _The Show Must Go On_, which would have put Jesse St. James and _Bohemian Rhapsody _to shame, in Will's wholy unbiased opinion. Although she had been met by groans and eye rolls at the time (he was fairly sure he'd heard Santana tell Rachel where she could stick her show) over the following days he'd slowly watched as, one-by-one, they followed Rachel's lead. By the time school broke for summer, they were back to their old on-again-off-again romances, teenage dramas (though thankfully no pregnancies) and on impressive Glee club form.

Every time he thinks back to the club singing _To Sir With Love, _he can't help but allow a smile to creep across his features. The moment itself had been bittersweet and his emotions too raw to really comprehend what they were saying to him, but hindsight is a powerful thing, and it is with an astonishing amount of pride that he thinks about how they've all grown and how – it seems churlish to deny it – he has helped. Santana, while perhaps far from warm and fuzzy, now occasionally graces some of the Glee clubbers with a smile. Puck no longer feels the need to slushie somebody _every_day and Quinn has undergone an amazing transformation, from the self-centred Queen Bee of the previous autumn to a girl who had the courage to give away her baby girl to a family she didn't know for a better future. Finn has grown into a mature, thoughtful (if still a little slow) young man and Tina no longer stutters her way through conversations. Most of the time now Rachel manages to tone her crazy down to tolerable and Mike has come to dazzle with his dancing.

Will loves his job. He loves the fact that through teaching he can change somebody's life for the better, that he can give a child music, and joy and hope. But as he has learned once before at regionals and will learn again on _that_ September morning, teaching can also break your heart.

GLEE!

"_Ice, ice baby vanilla! Now that the party is jumpin- _Emma!" Will's all singing, all dancing rendition of Vanilla Ice's song comes to a rapid halt as he finds himself face-to-face with Emma Pillsbury, very bottom of his list of people-to-run-into-while-rapping-in-a-deserted-corridor. "What are you... I didn't expect to see you here." The statement seems obvious bordering on pointless, but it is the best he can come up with whilst praying for the ground to open up and swallow him.

She raises an eyebrow at him, a small smile playing the corners of her lips, and all of a sudden he can feel his heart pounding in his chest and a bead of sweat trickling from his palms. _Damn it_, why can she still have this effect on him? "Will, I _work_ here. It's a Thursday. It's the start of term, meaning the probability of me having caught some sort of disease due to the abominable hygiene of the vast majority of the student and staff body is at its year long low. Why _wouldn't_ I be here?"

"I-" He opens his mouth and promptly snaps it shut again, realising he has no good answer to this question. In truth, had he ran into any other person in the school, he would have laughed off the embarrassing moment; most people do by now expect such eccentricities of the Glee coach, it's nothing on most of the Glee clubbers themselves. But because it's _her_ and because he's spent the better part of the summer obsessing over her, he can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. "I don't know," he replies lamely.

Fortunately Emma Pillsbury, despite much evidence to the contrary, is an accomplished school counsellor, and as such knows when a subject ought to be dropped. She smiles and suddenly he doesn't care about much else anymore because she's _smiling_. "How was your summer?"

_Terrible. I spent the whole two months agonising over what you could possibly see in a _dentist _above me_. "Great! Really relaxing! Got loads sorted out for Glee," – at least that much was true, selecting songs and choreographing them proved an effective distraction from his pitiful love life – "we're going to wipe the floor with Vocal Adrenaline this year. And yours?" This time it is Emma's cheeks that burn a slow crimson, and suddenly she won't meet his eyes. "Emma?" he prompts in confusion.

"Will I..." She stops and glances around, as though hoping for an excuse to escape. "Can you hear that? Someone's being sick... I should really go and check on them. Bulimia's a serious problem, you know, more than one in –"

"Emma, nobody's being sick."

"Are you sure? I thought I heard... no?" Her eyes are still darting from left to right, and then she lets out a sigh of resignation and she finally looks at his face, although she still won't quite allow her eyes to meet his. "Perhaps you should sit down."

"We're in the middle of the hallway."

"Ah, yes, good point. Well, in that case, maybe we shou-"

"Emma, spit it out."

"I got married," she blurts. There is a long, pregnant pause. "To Carl," she adds for clarification.

For a moment, Will is too stunned to speak. He takes an involuntary step backwards and reaches for the wall to steady himself, thinking that a chair mightn't have been such a bad idea after all. Despite all his agonising, all his wallowing, a small part of him still believed they would work it out. They have to work it out. They're Will and Emma! Except now they aren't, he's Will and she's Emma and Carl. A hollow feeling settles in the pit of his stomach. "Married," he echoes, trying the word out for size. And then before he knows what's happening, anger is rising and words spill from his mouth before he even knows what he's saying. "What were you _thinking! _Do you not remember what happened last time? How long have you even known the guy? A _dentist?_ How could you be so _stupid?_"

It takes a second or two for the words to sink in, and then she looks as though she has been slapped. Tears rapidly fill her eyes, but before he can backpedal she has started her own barrage. "I was _thinking_ that maybe he loved me, unlike you who couldn't keep your man-whore hands off everything that walks!" she explodes. "I was thinking that I didn't want to spend my whole life waiting around for you to decide. I was thinking that!" She takes a deep breath, blinking rapidly. "Can't you just be happy for me?"

They stare at each other, he searching her eyes desperately for some uncertainty, but for the first time in his memory he can find none. "I... I don't know."

The blinked back tears rapidly return. "Fine!"

"Fine!"

She turns on her heel and storms away. And though it is so, so far from fine, he watches her go, feeling the knife twist in his chest as he does.

GLEE!

By the time he reaches the practise room ten minutes later, having made a stop at the toilets to re-compose himself, his previous good mood has long dissipated. He greets the assembled group with little more than a grunt and tells them he needs five minutes to get sorted before they start. He had been planning on starting the year by teaching the group _Footloose_ which he has spent a good proportion of the summer arranging for them, but he has a new plan. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Rachel's hand shoot in the air, but she promptly pulls it back down following an elbow in the ribs from Finn, for which Will is exceedingly grateful.

Within moments, the buzz of chatter once again fills the room, and seizing the distraction, Will tunes into the conversations around him whilst rifling through his collection of sheet music. The first voice he hears is, naturally, Rachel's, who seems to have Finn hanging on her every word. That boy really needs a new girlfriend. "We spent four weeks in New York," she's currently boasting, complete with extravagant hand gestures. "We saw everything: _Wicked, Chicago, Memphis, Phantom_... And Daddy promised me we could go back next summer. I'm planning on booking tickets as early as possible this year to ensure the best seats, as it's essential for me to study the performances of current leading ladies. After all, it's not long until they'll be my competition."

Across from Rachel next to the piano - and therefore within Will's hearing range despite the lack of Rachel's vocal projection - Quinn and Puck are conversing more quietly. "Mrs. White sent me some more photos last night," she's telling him, and Will immediately realises they're discussing Beth. "She seems to be doing really well."

"Of course she is, babe," Puck replies, sliding his hand onto her thigh. It is promptly slapped away, with a hiss about _'that being how the whole mess started in the first place'_ and Will quickly glances around for somebody else to eavesdrop on. Mercedes and Kurt seem to be engaged in an intense debate on the pros and cons of nudes versus black, and while Will tries listening for a few seconds he finds himself rapidly out of his depth. Santana and Brittany's heads are so close together that he can't even see their lips moving, let alone work out what they're saying, yet judging by the expression on Matt's face it's deeply fascinating. Tina is sat with her head resting on Mike's shoulder; Will does a double take when he sees this, and indeed if Artie's forlorn expression is anything to go by, it seems there is a new couple in Glee. He sighs, and returns his gaze to Artie. At least somebody will appreciate his assignment.

Deciding he has stalled for long enough, Will clears his throat to draw the attention of his students. They all fall quiet quickly, although Mercedes shoots him a look which suggests he has just interrupted a very important point in her argument. "Okay," he starts, running through his change of plan in his head one last time. "This year's first assignment is heartbreak. I want you to split into pairs and prepare a –" The sound of a quiet 'ahem' from the doorway causes him to fall silent and as he realises who is standing there he finds himself wishing for the second time in half an hour that the ground would swallow him. _Perfect._ Just the person he wants to hear him talk about heartbreak. "Now's not a good time, Miss Pillsbury," he says, keeping his voice as even as possible.

She smiles a thin smile, and he suddenly notices how strained she appears. Did she look like that before? He doesn't think so. "It really needs to be now," she replies in a tight voice.

He turns back to the assembled crowd of teenagers, many of whom are watching the exchange with narrowed, calculating eyes, and he guesses the significance of his mood and the assignment is not lost on them. Why doesn't he teach seven-year-olds who're oblivious to teacher's personal lives? "Right, pair up and I'll tell you what you're doing when I get back. Try and mix it up a bit guys – no, Finn, not Rachel – and, yeah... I'll be right back." He follows Emma from the room and closes the door to keep the conversation from prying ears (he may not be above eavesdropping himself, but he'll be damned if he's about to give Rachel or Mercedes more gossip ammunition than is completely unavoidable). "What is it Emma?" he demands as soon as the door clicks, barely concealing the irritation in his voice. For a long moment she says nothing, and when she does her voice is so quiet he doesn't quite catch the words. "What is it?" he repeats, his voice a great deal softer than before, for even if she has broken his heart he cannot bear to see her sad.

"It's the Berrys," she says, and as her voice catches he feels his heart start to beat faster, and this time it's not due to the soft rise and fall of her chest or the slight redness of her lips. He feels a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, and a chill shoots through his body. "Rachel's fathers."

"What about them?" he asks, fearing he already knows the answer, but praying that his suspicions are somehow wrong.

"They're dead."


	2. of Dentists and Denial, part II

A big thanks to _Kalyxia, CertifiedGleek, AliceCullenForever101, MarlisaKristine, JackyKay, dancergirl1109, shoov22, Back-in-Black-Chameron _and _Ceil _for your reviews, I really appreciate the feedback. A few people have been asking about ships; while I do have one or two things planned involving a certain pair, this isn't a story about any couple really, other than Rachel and Shelby. Certain couples will make appearances, but I'm keeping schum about who at the moment. In answer to MarlisaKristine's question, I had this all plotted in my head before the last episode aired, which is why there's no Beth and Shelby still coaches VA. Even so, I think it's safe to say their relationship ended in the same way, with the same conversation at regionals, just without those details.

Enjoy!

**Will: of Dentists and Denial, part II**

The world slows down. All day-to-day sounds are blocked out and replaced by a ringing, which rapidly grows in volume and intensity until there is nothing else. _Dead?_ Even the word seems incomprehensible. Horror dawns as Rachel's face swims before Will's eyes. Rachel, who minutes before had been bragging about the trip to New York her fathers were going to take her on next summer. Rachel, so full of dreams and song, yet so utterly devoted to her parents and so completely fragile. Suddenly his knees feel weak and for the second time that day he has to grope for the wall to prevent himself from tumbling to the floor.

"Will?" The voice seems to be coming at him from a distance, yet he senses it's closer than it sounds. He blinks in an attempt to clear his head and suddenly the world is sliding back into focus. The ringing dies and the buzz of chatter from behind the practise room door is once again audible. He and Emma seem to realise at the same moment that her hand is clamped around his wrist; she immediately lets her arm fall to her side. They stare at each other for a long minute, the enormity of the news pressing onto both of them, crushing and relentless.

A shriek of laughter breaks the moment and Will's eyes slide to the door; the group are all doubled over laughing while Mercedes seems to be doing some kind of impression that involves a great deal of finger waving and diva stomping. Will's eyes focus on Rachel, who has just straightened up and is wiping the tears of laughter from her face. Quinn turns to her and says something, eliciting another snort from the brunette. Unable to bear the scene a moment longer Will turns away. "What happened?" he asks, finding his voice unusually hoarse.

Emma too seems to have been riveted by the scene in the classroom, but when Will speaks she tears her eyes away and slowly focuses on him. "A fire at their house early this afternoon. Neither of them got out, they were both found dead once the fire crew got it under control. That's all I know."

He nods slowly. "And Rachel?" he asks, the teacher within him gradually emerging above the shock. Poor, poor Rachel. "What happens to her? What do we do now?"

A sigh escapes her lips and he can see she's losing the fight to her tears for the second time today; this time, far from growing angry, he has to fight the urge to gently wipe them from her cheeks. "The police are trying to get in touch with her family, but they haven't had any luck yet," she tells him, swiping at her eyes. He doesn't even comment that she's using the sleeve of her usually pristine jumper. "I said we'd keep her here until they got back in touch but Will... we need to tell her. She's not a kid, she has a right to know."

"I know," he agrees, glancing back into the choir room where he can see her standing slightly apart from the others now, doing vocal warm-ups. He sighs. "How can we though? How do you break someone's heart?" A silence falls between them, and suddenly neither can look the other in the eye.

GLEE!

Ten minutes later Rachel is seated before Emma's desk, fidgeting nervously. Emma has closed the door and is squeezing between the desk and wall to reach her chair on the other side and Will is standing slightly off Rachel's left shoulder, fighting the impulse to lay a comforting hand on her. _Not yet. _Once Emma is seated she makes a great show of neatening the stacks of paper on her desk, despite the fact they are all already in perfect perpendicular piles. Rachel is watching her nervously, chewing at her nails and clearly waiting for somebody to break the silence. Eventually, it seems, the quiet becomes too much. "Miss Pillsbury, I-"

"Mrs Howell."

"I- What?"

"It's Mrs Howell now, I married over the summer."

Rachel is momentarily stunned. "Congratulations, I guess," she replies after a beat, and Will can feel her eyes sliding towards him, even as he determinedly seeks out Emma's gaze to hurry her along. She's clearly stalling, and while he is just as reluctant as she to deal the devastating blow, he knows they must soon, and the knowledge of this fact is suffocating him. "Mrs Howell, then," Rachel continues. "If this is about the slag list graffiti in the girls' toilets then I can assure you I had nothing to do with it, the fact I was even included simply goes to show the lack of proper research conducted by whoever-"

Suddenly Will can bear no more. Stepping forwards, he lays a hand on Rachel's shoulder, silencing her tangent. She looks up at him, her eyebrows furrowing in concern as she takes in the expression on his face. He gives her a comforting smile and glances over at Emma who nods imperceptibly. Wishing, praying for time to slow or to go backwards or for something to happen to make _this_ moment disappear, he draws his eyes back to meet Rachel's and takes a deep breath. "Rachel, we've had some bad news." Rachel's eyes do not leave his for a moment but they do widen as she nods, silently telling him to continue. He wishes he could look away but he can't, not now. "Your fathers, they-" Suddenly there is a block in his throat and the words won't come. He starts again. "Your parents are..." This time he trails away, feeling the words die on his lips. He can't do it.

From across the table Emma clears her throat and he has never in his life been more grateful for her presence. Rachel switches her gaze to Emma. "Rachel, sweetie," she begins, and her voice betrays none of the shakiness of earlier or the uncertainty of his own. In that moment he sees her in a new light: no longer the socially awkward, neurotic Emma that he knows, but a professional with a job to do. "Your dads were caught in a fire at your house this afternoon. I'm so sorry, but neither of them made it out."

Will's only indication that Rachel has heard the news is a slight stiffening of the shoulder beneath his hand. For what seems like hours nobody moves and then Rachel slowly looks around, drawing her eyes to meet Will's. He can read no emotion; they are as flat and expressionless as he has ever seen them. When she speaks he is amazed by how steady and emotionless her voice sounds. "Is it true?" she asks simply.

He closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at her as he confirms her worst nightmare. "Yes," comes the whispered reply.

Another pause and then, "You're lying."

Of all the reactions he has been expecting, flat out denial is not one of them. He knows she is prone to be over-dramatic so has prepared himself for uncontrollable weeping of perhaps hysterical anger, but not this. This seems so calm and calculated. "We're not lying, I promise you," comes Emma's voice and Will shakes his head. He does not trust himself to speak more than a few syllables.

Without warning Rachel leaps to her feet and Will's hand is thrown unceremoniously from her shoulder. "You're lying," she repeats, and this time her voice is a good deal louder and higher. Despite himself, Will cannot help but feel a moment's relief; _this_ he can handle, hysterical Rachel is nothing new. Still, as he meets her eyes and sees the desperation he wishes that he could tell her they are lying, that it is all an exercise in theatricality, that her dads are both fine. "Mr. Schue?" she asks, her voice cracking. "It's not true, is it?"

He licks his lips; they are somehow very dry. "I'm so sorry Rachel." He reaches out a hand to comfort her but she throws it off, moving towards the door. Will quickly moves to block her exit.

"Get out of my way," she says, glaring at a mark on his shirt.

"Rachel-"

"Get. Out. Of. My. _Way._"

He is unprepared for the fist which comes flying towards his face with surprising force, so does not pull away in time to prevent the crunching sound of bone as it collides with his nose. "Argh," he cries, staggering backwards with the force of the blow. He can taste something hot and coppery and is half aware of Emma thrusting tissues at him, telling him to make sure none of the blood hits the carpet, but mostly he just watches in shock as Rachel tears from the room and bolts up the deserted corridor where, an hour before, he had been singing.

GLEE!

Once Emma has calmed down and pulled on her latex gloves, she is actually a very accomplished first aider. "It's pretty much stopped," she's telling him now, gingerly pulling away the tissue she has been holding at his nose and dropping it into the bin as if it might explode. He has a strong suspicion she'll later burn the contents and disinfect the bin. "You ought to stop by the ER though, it might be broken."

Will does not much care one way or another about broken noses at the moment, but he nods anyway. "I will," he tells her thickly.

She picks up a cloth and dabs it into the bowl of warm water next to her, before wiping his face, presumably removing the last of the blood. He can feel her warm breath tickling his neck and her lips are inches from his own. Her arm drops slowly to her side and they stare at each other, breathing rapid and pulses fluttering. And then, at the same moment, both look away.

"Emma, I-"

"Will, I-"

They both stop, embarrassed, and Emma gestures at Will. "You first," she offers, busying herself with wringing out the cloth.

"Emma, are you happy?"

Her eyes fly back to his, and for a moment he thinks she's going to snap at him, but then she sighs. "Yes, Will, I'm happy. It's different this time. With Ken I knew it was a mistake but this time... this time it feels right. I know you think I've rushed into it, and maybe that's true, but I love him Will. Really, truly love him. We're just right." Speech over, she reverts her attention to removing her gloves.

"Okay," Will exhales, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. Their earlier argument seems so long ago and, in the light of this afternoon's events, so incredibly futile. "Well then, I'm happy for you."

She doesn't look up at him, but he can see the smile spread across her features. "Thank you," she whispers.

An awkward silence falls and Will abruptly gets to his feet. "I should go..."

Business-like, she nods. "Of course. I'll check the school again and let you know as soon as I hear something... You'll ring me if you find her, won't you?"

"You'll be the first to know," he promises, hand on the door. "Although I have no idea where I'm looking."

She laughs, shooing him from the office. "If anyone knows where to find her, it's you Will. Besides, I expect she won't be too hard to find. She's scared and running, not thinking." The truth in these words causes the sombre mood to quickly return, so Will nods his goodbye and slips from the room.

Sat in his car, five minutes later, Will has no more idea where to begin his search. Initially he'd wanted to chase straight after Rachel, but Emma had persuaded him it was best to give her a while to herself to allow the news to sink in. They'd done a quick check of the obvious places (namely the choir room, auditorium and girls' toilets) but when they'd all drawn up blank she'd suggested she clean up his face then they split up and search properly. Will has half a mind to call Finn, perhaps she has gone to seek comfort in him, but something stops him. Rachel is both over-dramatic and attention seeking, but he suspects now, when it really matters, she'll want to be alone.

The sound of a passing fire engine breaks him from his thoughts and suddenly he has an idea. _"You're lying,"_ she'd said. Without pausing he quickly starts the engine and pulls from his parking space, his certainty growing by the moment.

He has been to Rachel's house only once before; it had been pouring with rain and both her parents were working late meaning she had to walk, so he'd offered her a lift. Despite this, he's fairly certain he can remember the way and he knows it isn't far. As he draws closer to the street he realises he is indeed in the right place; a large crowd is present including a number of journalists, police officers and fire officials.

The area is cordoned off, so he pulls up a few streets back and jumps out of the car. He scans the crowd as he approaches and his heart sinks as he sees no familiar long, brown hair. He'd been _so sure._ Still, he is here now, he might as well find out what he can. He approaches a woman scribbling on a notebook, realising he is likely to find out more from a journalist than by speaking with any of the officials. "Excuse me?" he asks, and she looks up.

"Can I help?" she asks, giving him a practised and assessing once over.

"I was hoping you could tell me what happened here?"

She sighs in irritation, clearly having been hoping for something more interesting to add to her story, but shrugs and snaps her notebook shut. "It's pretty much common knowledge, I suppose. A gay couple live here, they were killed this afternoon. Word is that the police think it's a hate crime gone wrong; nobody was supposed to be in the house." Will can feel his face crumple and a moment later her eyes narrow. "Who are you?" she asks suspiciously.

"I'm... nobody. Just a neighbour," he lies.

She's already pulling her notebook back out. "So you knew Mr and Mr Berry? Would you like to comment? Such horrible business, I'm sure you'll agree."

Will is shaking his head before the question is finished. "I didn't know them personally," he tells her, already moving away. "Thank you for your help." He slips through the crowd, heart pounding in his chest. _A hate crime? _And the police think whoever did it hadn't meant to kill anybody. Does that make it better or worse? He isn't sure. All he knows is that, judging by the few times he's met them, there aren't two people _less_ deserving of being the victim of such a horrible attack.

He is almost back to the car when a lone figure catches his eye. She is standing a distance back from the crowd watching the scene unfold. He wonders why he didn't notice her to begin with, but then he realises her arms are wrapped around herself and she seems to be trying to shrink away into the ground. _Rachel._

Now that he has found her, he has no idea how to react. For a moment he is rooted to the spot, but then he shakes himself. He can't afford to act like this. She's scared, lonely and vulnerable and he's her teacher, and she needs him now. Without another moment's hesitation he takes purposeful strides towards her.

She doesn't look at him immediately, seemingly riveted by the image of the unfolding drama. To begin with he thinks she doesn't know he's here and is about to clear his throat to announce his presence when she speaks in that flat, expressionless voice. "Sorry I ran off before. I just had to see for myself... See that it was true." She turns to look at him. The fact she hasn't bolted again strikes him as positive so he offers her a small smile. Her eyes are bloodshot but not red or puffy, and he can't tell whether or not she's been crying but he suspects not. As she takes in his face she winces slightly. "Sorry," she says listlessly. "About your nose, I mean."

Self-consciously, Will reaches a hand to touch his nose, which throbs in pain. "Don't worry about it," he replies thickly, reaching out his hand to her but pulling it away at the last moment when he remembers the last time he tried such a gesture of comfort. "Rachel, I-"

"Please, Mr. Schue," she croaks. "I know you mean well, but please, I just need to be alone right now."

"I know, but I can't leave, not right now. Is there anyone I can call for you, any family?"

A humourless laugh escapes her lips, and it's a stark contrast from the sound he heard only an hour or so earlier coming from the classroom. "My Dad's an only child," she tells him, her eyes now firmly fixed on the site of her home, which is now little more than charcoal and stone. "His dad died a few years ago and his mum has dementia. Daddy's family abandoned him when he came out as gay."

Will doesn't know how to respond to this. No wonder the police couldn't contact family. His heart breaks just a little bit more, as he looks at the young starlet who is suddenly and absolutely alone in the world. "I... Rachel... I..."

Rachel shakes her head. "It is what it is, Mr. Schue," she tells him, and now he can see that she's fighting back tears. "Please," she sniffs, "Just... leave me be."

He longs to comfort her but he feels, for the first time since he thought Glee had lost their funding, completely and utterly inadequate. Helplessly he watches as she struggles to hold herself together, but even he can see she's crumbling. She needs somebody to hold her, to tell her it's all okay. She needs... and then all of a sudden he knows exactly what she needs.

Pulling out his phone, he takes a few steps backwards and out of earshot. He scrolls through the list of names, pausing for only a second before hitting the 'call' button. It rings once, twice, three, four times before there is a curt "Hello," and he lets out a breath he doesn't even know he was holding.

"Shelby, it's Will Schuester, from McKinley."

"Will?" she echoes, surprised. He cannot blame her; the last time they spoke was a polite 'hello' at regionals, when he thought she and her team had just cost _his_ team their funding. "Will, can this wait, we're in the middle of a rehearsal – no, you idiot, you're supposed to... never mind, I'll show you. Just give me a minute – what was I saying? Oh yes, I'm really quite busy and-"

"It's Rachel." He knows this will shut her up and indeed, it has the desired effect: she falls silent.

"Rachel? Is everything alright?"

"No, not really," he replies, feeling for about a millionth time today that he has no idea how to proceed with the conversation. He realises there is nothing for it but to dive straight in. "Shelby, her dads are dead."

For a moment there is a stunned silence at the other end of the line. "Quiet," she snaps, presumably at one of her Vocal Adrenaline students. "Take five, move it, I want you all out of here." There is the sound of scuffling as her pupils apparently hurry to obey and then a whispered, "Dead?" Will is strongly reminded of earlier today when he and Emma had the same conversation outside the choir room. He remembers keenly the shock.

"There was a fire, early this afternoon. Neither of them made it out alive."

For a few moments neither speaks, each instead listening to the other's breathing. Will's mind, for the first time since he heard the news, is oddly clear. He realises that the shock has worn off and he's slipped back into teacher mode; Rachel is in need and it's up to him now to do _something_. "Will," Shelby says after a pause. "Why did you call? I don't know what you expect me to do. How is she?"

"She needs you," he says simply. "She's got nobody else, no one."

Another pause. "I don't know if I can... Will, I can't just... I don't know what I can do."

"I know you walked away because you thought there wasn't a place for you in her life Shelby, and I agree that it was the right thing to do for both of you. But there isn't just a place anymore, there's a great gaping hole that only you can even begin to fill. She _needs_ you." He pauses for a moment, allowing his words to sink in. "Please."

There is no reply, and if not for the sound of erratic, heavy, almost laboured breathing on the other end of the line, Will might think she's hung up. Instead he waits and says nothing, subconsciously matching his own breathing to hers until it returns to a controlled rhythm. "Shelby?" he prompts when she hasn't spoken for at least two minutes.

"Where are you? I'm on my way."


	3. of Acquaintances and Anger, part I

Sorry this chapter has taken a little longer, I found Shelby considerably more difficuly to write than Will, and then I went off on holiday and my internet has taken longer to sort than I expected. Still, I'm here now with some more! A huge thanks to _AliceCullenForever101, JackyKay, KateGreysFan, keal, TMOLMRENT, Egypt-chan _(I'm a big fan, by the way, love your stories!), _iamnopoet, banjojd _(I was having the same problem for a while; I hope it's sorted for you now), _fja, internationalgleek786, Selema.C _and _reillyt4._ I've been overwhelmed by the response I've been getting and every email I get from makes me smile. For those wondering about when Glee will make their appearance, they'll show up in the second part of this, and then the next chapter is all theirs! As always, hope you enjoy.

**Shelby: of Acquaintances and Anger, part I**

As any of her Vocal Adrenaline students will attest, Shelby Corcoran is not a patient woman. Many of them have learnt this the hard way; the first time one of them is late to practise without a damn good excuse is also usually the last. When Will calls and she snaps at them to get out of the auditorium they're practically scrambling over one another in their hurry to obey. None of them want to be the last left in the room.

No, even at the best of times Shelby is not a patient woman, but now is certainly not the best of times, and if that _fucking_ car doesn't move within the next ten seconds, she's going to- The car pulls away and Shelby exhales, mentally counting to three before dipping the handbrake and following. She may be irritated, but driving so close to that imbecile that she hits him will only serve to delay her, a delay which she can ill afford.

Shelby has driven from Carmel to Lima on a number of occasions previously, most recently to sort out the tyre-slashing fiasco (a waste of time, as it transpires; if any of her choir had thoughts of being reimbursed following the egging incident she had made sure those hopes were short-lived), but never has the journey taken so long. She is sure pedestrians and motorists alike are going out of their way to delay her progress and her patience is thinning by the second. At the same time, she cannot help but feel a small, unwelcome flicker of relief in the pit of her stomach. She has no idea what she can possibly say or do to help Rachel, and every moment on the roads is a moment longer before she has to face the reality of being the primary support for a teenager she hardly knows.

After what feels simultaneously like a lifetime and only minutes, Shelby pulls into the familiar street. She has been here only once before, when she drove Rachel home having helped with her dire Lady Gaga costume, but she has the address memorised. Immediately she notices the crowd gathered at the far end, and as she climbs out and slams her car door shut she takes a moment's pause to survey the damage they are all gazing at. She cannot properly tell from this distance, but she would be very surprised if anything from the property is salvageable.

After only a momentary hesitation, Shelby straightens and takes a deep breath. The time for indecision or uncertainty is long gone. Now is the time to act. Shelby is not somebody to commit half-heartedly, be it to Vocal Adrenaline (another personality trait her team would quickly attest to) or to her personal life (the lack thereof is a case in point; if they're not for keeps, then what's the point? The idiots she's dated recently are definitely _not_ for keeps). Through choice or otherwise, she is now responsible for a parentless teenager who needs a mom, and she'll be damned if she doesn't do a good job of being just that.

She spots Rachel easily, standing a few feet back from the now thinning crowd. Will is stood a further few feet away, and it is him she makes a beeline for. He raises a hand in greeting and hurries to meet her, surprising her when he engulfs her in a hug, which she hesitantly returns. "Shelby," he breaths, voice heavy with relief. "I'm so glad you're here."

"Will," she replies, taking a step back and surveying the teacher critically. She may be melodramatic at times (although she prefers the term theatrical) but he is simply over emotional, a quality which irks her no end. As she lifts her eyes to his face and catches sight of his swollen, bruised nose she does a double take. "What happened to you?" she asks, eyebrows raised.

He lifts a hand to his nose, touching it as though to check it is still there and promptly wincing. Idiot. "Rachel did," he admits, and Shelby feels her stomach plummet a further few inches. How on earth is she possibly supposed to start helping such a frightened, confused teenager? "I tried to get between her and the doorway... My mistake, really." He tries for a laugh, but to Shelby's ears it sounds more like a bark, and indeed he quickly falls silent.

Shelby's eyes move to Rachel, who has taken advantage of the disappearing crowd and is now sitting on the curb, her view of the smoking house remaining unobscured. She has her back to the pair of adults and Shelby suspects she isn't listening but she lowers her voice anyway. "Has she said anything?" she asks softly.

Will too is staring at Rachel and Shelby can practically smell the sympathy oozing from him. For some reason she struggles to identify, this causes her to bristle in irritation. It shouldn't be up to him to offer Rachel sympathy and provide a shoulder to cry on, it should be _her_, and yet she knows she has nobody to blame for this but herself. "Not really," Will admits sadly with a slightly shake of his head. "Just what I told you about her family." _She has no one_, he'd said. Well isn't that Shelby's fault too?

As soon as the thought crosses Shelby's mind she buries it, now irritated at herself. If there is one thing she despises more than wasted talent it is self pity, and she is annoyed at herself for even indulging in it for a moment, especially now when her daughter so clearly needs her. "I'm going to go and speak to her," she tells Will, because if she doesn't now she never will. Shelby cannot quite bring herself to add '_wait for me'_ but she hopes he hears it anyway. Irritating and emotional he may be, but he's _someone_ other than her, someone to pick up the pieces if this goes horribly wrong.

Rachel doesn't turn as Shelby approaches and takes a seat beside her, but neither does she seem surprised when her small hand, which is lying on the concrete supporting her weight, is covered by Shelby's larger one. "Rachel?" Shelby prompts softly when Rachel still fails to react.

"Hi Mom." The toneless address causes Shelby's chest to constrict painfully. She has no right to that name, yet her heart flutters slightly every time she hears it. She suspects Rachel is currently in too much shock to really think about what she's saying, but even so Shelby experiences a wave of gratitude and love for her daughter.

Finally Rachel turns to face her mother, and the _'how are you doing?' _dies on Shelby's lips. Rachel's expression is oddly calm and composed, yet her face has the ghostly grey hue of a terminally ill person, and her eyes are empty. It makes Shelby feel slightly sick. She isn't sure what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn't this vacant detachment, and she suddenly has absolutely no idea what to say. "Your hands are cold," she blurts the first thing that pops into her head, desperate to distract from the painful thumping in her chest.

"Are they?" Rachel asks, glancing down to where Shelby's hand is still covering hers. "I hadn't noticed."

Despite the fact she herself is shivering, Shelby shrugs out of her jacket and drapes it over Rachel's shoulders, edging slightly closer as she does so. "Here, you'll freeze, put this on." She returns her hand to its position over Rachel's and silence descends. It is pressing and uncomfortable, and Shelby finds herself searching desperately for soemthing to do or say "How long have you been sat here?" she asks, carefully tucking a strand of hair behind the girl's ear. The motion feels alien.

"I don't know."

The pair lapse into silence again, both gazing at the remains of Rachel's childhood home. Around them car doors are slamming and children laughing as life on the street slowly returns to normal. Neighbours are scattered in pairs and threes, heads close together and sending rapid, furtive glances between Rachel, Shelby and the charred house. Shelby glares at the gossips and without thinking places a protective arm around Rachel's shoulder. After a moment's stiffness Rachel leans into the contact. Shelby's heart lifts ever so slightly.

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"They're really gone, aren't they?"

Shelby's breath catches painfully in her throat and she tightens her grip on Rachel's arm. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart."

A sob escapes Rachel's lips but she hurriedly swallows back any more and instead presses her face into the crook of Shelby's neck. Shelby can feel rapid, shallow breaths tickling her throat. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do," Rachel croaks, her voice muffled.

_Neither do I_. "Come on, let's get you home."

Rachel lifts her head and her eyes meet Shelby's. They're no longer empty, just infinitely sad, and Shelby can't decide which is worse. Both break her heart. "This is my home. This has always been my home."

"I know, sweetheart." Shelby looks away, unable to maintain the eye contact, but she tightens her grip even further. Both gaze back towards the destroyed house and a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold shoots up Shelby's spine. A single raindrop lands on her head and she glances up, seeing dark grey clouds gathering menacingly.

"Where am I going to go?" The words are barely above a whisper.

As Shelby's eyes flick towards the girl, towards her daughter, she is filled with sudden certainty. "With me. You'll come and live with me," she replies. In all honesty she knew as soon as she received the call from Will that this is how the day would end, yet saying the words aloud makes them real, and the prospect simultaneously terrifies and excites her.

"Oh." The word falls from Rachel's lips and Shelby is not, she supposes, entitled to anything more.

Rain begins to fall, fast and hard. It is the first real rain of the fall. "Are you ready?" Shelby asks, squeezing Rachel's shoulder. "We'll be drenched through if we don't move soon."

"Can we wait a bit longer?"

Many people consider Shelby Corcoran to be an impatient woman, and perhaps sometimes they are right. What these people fail to notice is that her impatience is invariably derived from some other emotion: nerves perhaps, as she drives towards the teenage daughter she abandoned, or anger that somebody with _that much_ talent is wasting their potential by skiving rehearsal (and Jesse St. James is the _only_ person who has ever had the nerve to do that twice). When it matters though, while she waits in the pouring rain for her broken daughter to tear her eyes away from the house where she has built a life and walk away from everything she has ever known, then Shelby has all the time in the world.

GLEE!

It is only later that evening when Shelby hears the sound of the shower running upstairs that she finally allows herself to collapse into the sofa, the full weight of the day's events pressing heavily upon her. She is completely and utterly exhausted (not to mention only just drying off), yet she can't allow herself to sleep until she is sure Rachel is settled, and she has no idea how long that might take. Even if she did not need to check on her daughter she doubts she could actually sleep; her mind is far too busy. Should she ring the police and find out what's happening? Will has passed on what he was told about the supposed hate crime, but she has not yet had the heart to share it with Rachel. Better wait until it is more than hearsay.

For a brief moment her eyes flutter closed, but a second later her mobile vibrates on the coffee table. She glances at the caller ID. _Will._ She considers the phone for a second. It would be easy enough to claim that she was busy with Rachel when he rang, but a large part of her wants to talk to him. Despite the fact they are hardly more than acquaintances (one rather enjoyable snog aside) he is easy to talk to and besides, right now he's the only person she _can_ talk to. After only a brief hesitation she flicks open the phone. "Hi, Will," she greets him.

"Shelby," he returns warmly. "I'm just phoning to let you know I've spoken with social services and explained the situation – they'll be over in the morning to talk to both of you but they seem happy enough to let Rachel stay with you for the time being."

_Thank God for Will Schuester._ Shelby hasn't even thought of contacting anyone to talk about what would happen to Rachel, she has just assumed... But then, she is Rachel's mother, and if Rachel is happy with the situation (and who knows what Rachel is thinking right now), Shelby can see no reason why she can't stay. Nevertheless she thanks Will gratefully. "You're a lifesaver," she tells him, closing her eyes and sinking further into the pillows. A dull throbbing is making its presence felt in her temple.

"Just doing my bit. Listen, Shelby, if there's absolutely anything you need..."

"I'll call you," she assures him. "I can't thank you enough for everything you've done today Will, you just-"

"Shelby," he cuts her off. "You don't have to thank me."

A lump rises in her throat, and for the first time today she feels close to losing control of her tightly handled emotions. "I do though," she tells him, struggling to keep her voice even. "It should've been me, but it wasn't, so thank you for being there when she needed you."

For a moment he says nothing. She wonders whether he's going to argue with her, tell her it isn't her fault. She knows that of course, she just wishes it were different. Instead he surprises her. "You're welcome," he replies, and Shelby lets out a sigh, feeling oddly light for the acceptance. "How's Rachel doing?" he presses on, for which she's also grateful. Who knew Will Schuester could be so sensitive?

"I..." Shelby stops herself from saying _I don't know_ for fear of sounding completely incompetent and instead settles for, "She's hardly spoken two words. I've shown her the spare room and she's in the shower at the moment, but honestly... I just wish she'd do something. Punch me, scream at me, whatever."

"Be careful what you wish for, girl's got one hell of a right hook," Will jokes, and Shelby allows herself a brief laugh. As Will's did early, the noise sounds odd to her ears and she quickly quiets. "Seriously though, just give her a bit of time. It'll come, I bet, screaming and all."

"You're probably right," she acquiesces, and then to lighten the atmosphere, "Since when did you become the expert on teenage girls?"

"I just know Rachel," he reminds her gently, and Shelby is cut short. The unspoken _and you don't_ hangs between them. It's true, she supposes, but that doesn't make the truth any easier to digest. "You remember I told you she's not like you, she's more fragile?" Shelby remembers the conversation as if it were yesterday; she has replayed it in her mind enough times. "I reckon she hasn't quite digested the news yet, but the explosion will come. She needs you to be strong. Just be there and give her time."

GLEE!

Shelby does not remember falling asleep on the couch, but as she groggily wakes and glances at her phone she realises a good two hours have passed since she and Will ended their conversation. Years of living alone mean she is a light sleeper, and she's frequently woken by inconsequential noises outside, or perhaps a rattling radiator. Still, as she slowly regains her bearings she realises that tonight something different has woken her. As the pieces fall into place all vestiges of sleep fall away and she bolts for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

The spare room door is slightly ajar and Shelby knocks once to announce her presence before pushing it open and entering. Her heart breaks as she catches sight of the source of the noise which woke her: Rachel is sat on the floor at the foot of the double bed wrapped in a towel, head buried in her knees and sobbing uncontrollably. Shelby quickly covers the distance between them and sinks down beside her daughter. Acting purely out of instinct she winds an arm around Rachel's shoulders, pulling her closer. This time there is no stiffening and Rachel wastes not a moment in burying her head into her mother's chest and continuing to cry, the wracking sobs shaking both their bodies. "Shh," Shelby soothes, rubbing circles in her child's back. "Shhh."

"I want my daddies," Rachel wails desperately, and never in her life has Shelby felt so utterly helpless.

"I know, sweetheart," she murmurs, barely choking back her own tears. "I know."


	4. of Acquaintances and Anger, part II

Eek! Sorry for the slightly longer-than-normal wait, I've been battling with a number of factors including bad internet, low battery and hot Portugese weather which wipes my motivation to do _anything_, let alone write. On the whole though the delay is due to the fact that this part and I just haven't got on, so I'm sorry if it's not quite up to the previous three, I've grappled with it for as long as I possibly can. Despite (or because of) all the grief it's been giving me it was getting rediculously long, so I've shifted some scenes around and split Shelby's chapter further. That means there'll be at least one more Shelby part after this one, just to keep you all in the loop. As always my thanks go to _KateGreysFan, gleethe _(Rachel _will_ have a chapter, it'll be the fourth one, and I imagine there'll be some emotion exploring in there although I have to say it's not my forte), _starbuck128, Gigi18, AliceCullenForever101 _(some of those moodswings coming up!), _iamnopoet, dancergirl1109, alyells _(read your fic and I really like it! Can't wait for an update), _JackyKay, ilikepie2013, tammycote, MarlisaKristine, Lakeland, Vibiscuous, TwilightEquestrian _and _RosalieTheBeautyQueen. _Your comments completely blow me away, I can't describe how wonderful it is to hear that you're enjoying what I'm writing and to read you think my characterisation's about right - it's one of the things I agonise over the most! Also, thanks to everyone who is following this (and boosting my ego by boosting my hits!) - this is for all of you!

**Shelby: of Acquaintances and Anger, part II**

It is a good forty minutes later when Rachel's sobs gradually subside to hiccoughs and then into a faint sniffling. At some point during the crying jag Rachel's head has made its way into Shelby's lap, and Shelby is now alternately running her fingers though her daughter's hair and gently massaging her scalp. She is not sure where the gestures of comfort have come from (her only recent experiences of comforting anyone have been with melodramatic Vocal Adrenaline performers who wouldn't recognise a _real_ problem if it danced naked and dangled a Tony in front of their noses), all she knows is that it is imperative she gets this absolutely right. Despite this almost crushing knowledge, she still finds sitting with her daughter's head resting on her legs to be oddly cathartic.

Shelby would be content to sit here all night savouring every last moment of contact, but Rachel's head is growing gradually heavier and the hitched breaths are now few and far between. It is unlikely either of them will get much rest over the next few days, she realises, and she must crush her own selfish urges to stay here forever in favour of gently shaking Rachel's shoulder. "Rachel, sweetheart, don't fall asleep yet. Come on, let's get you to bed."

"Mhhhm," Rachel groans reluctantly. She sits up groggily, one hand on her head where Shelby's had moments before been caressing, the other holding her towel in place. She blinks a couple of times and Shelby watches as first confusion, then dawning comprehension and finally that crushing sadness flick across her face. "What time is it?" she asks hoarsly, taking in her surroundings as though she is seeing them for the first time. Perhaps, Shelby realises as she remembers the trance-like state Rachel had followed her around the house in earlier, this is the first time she's really seeing anything.

Shelby glances at her watch. "Ten," she replies as she grabs a bedpost and hauls herself to her feet. Her legs are stiff and sore from being in the same position for so long, and they feel oddly weightless without Rachel's head pressing on them. She reaches out a hand to her daughter who regards it almost warily for a moment before accepting it and pulling herself up. The pair stand in silence for a moment with their hands still linked, regarding one another. Rachel is the one to break the tension; she drops both her gaze and her hand and pulls her towel more tightly around her body as though she has only just realised she's practically naked. Shelby, sensing her discomfort, quickly averts her eyes. She gestures instead to a chest of drawers with a large _Wicked_ t-shirt lying on top. "I put that out for you to sleep in," she informs Rachel for the second time that evening. "It'll do for tonight, and I'll run out and pick up some essentials tomorrow. When we've got a bit more time we can go and do some proper shopping."

"Thanks," Rachel replies quietly, her eyes flicking from Shelby to the top. There is another moment's pause. "I'll just, err..."

"Right!" Shelby blurts, quickly realising what Rachel's trying to say. "I'll just... I'll be just down the hall. If you need anything, just shout." Rachel nods, and Shelby takes her cue to leave, squeezing her daughter's shoulder as she passes. She is almost out the door when she pauses and glances back into the room. Rachel's usually petite form looks even smaller in the dim light cast by the bedside lamp. She's gazing around at the unfamiliar surroundings like a deer caught in headlights and the weight of the tragedy and of the unknown future seem to be pressing down on her, for her shoulders are slightly huddled and her arms wrapped around herself. Were the situation different Shelby would remind her about her posture – it's all part of the performance, after all – but instead she finds herself almost mirroring the position; her shoulders slump and she shifts restlessly, torn between leaving Rachel in peace, and gathering her up and never letting go again.

Instead she settles for a whispered, "Goodnight, sweetheart," before slipping from the room.

GLEE!

The second time that Shelby is woken by Rachel's sobs that night she staggers down the hall half-blindly and bursts through the door to the spare room. This time it takes almost an hour of meaningless platitudes, assurances and back rubbing before Rachel finally drifts off to sleep again, her face buried into her mother's side. Shelby spends a few minutes simply watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest, but eventually sleep and her own bed beckons and she slips quietly out from underneath Rachel. Carefully, so as not to wake her, Shelby rearranges Rachel's covers and drops a quick kiss to her forehead before once again departing for her own bed.

GLEE!

The third time she is woken that night - this time by Rachel's cries as she emerges from a nightmare - Shelby gives up on any illusions of getting a decent amount of sleep. She crawls into bed beside Rachel, who rolls towards her, still half asleep, and latches onto her hand. For a long time after Rachel's breathing settles, Shelby watches the shadows of cars passing the window, her mind to busy for any real rest.

GLEE!

Never having had the responsibility of taking care of a baby nor of being in a job in which her presence can be demanded at the drop of a hat, when left without unusual noises to jolt her from her sleep Shelby is a slow waker. Still, as she gradually regains consciousness the next morning she senses rather than notices that a number of things are amiss. It is far too light to begin with, and though she can hear her alarm buzzing it's not nearly so loud as usual. She cracks an eye open hoping for some kind of clue and quickly realises her mistake; she is not in her own bedroom with blackout blinds and an alarm clock, but in the guest room, which she has never really put any effort into decorating and consequently has only thin curtains to block the dawn light spilling through the windows. The alarm clock is buzzing in her own room, down the hall.

She sits up, shifting through the memories from last night. The last time she looked at a clock, probably about twenty minutes before she finally drifted to sleep, it had been about three. There had been no more crying since Shelby moved beds – at least none that she'd been aware of – but Rachel had spent most of the night tossing restlessly and Shelby hadn't been able to tell whether or not she was asleep; either way she took Rachel's silence to mean she didn't want to talk about it.

Rachel's side of the bed is empty and cold; it feels like it hasn't been slept in for at least an hour. Shelby is about to swing her legs out of bed in order to track down her daughter when Rachel bursts into the room, fully dressed (and not in the outfit she was wearing yesterday, Shelby notes in confusion) and carrying a tray stacked high with toast, fruit and a steaming mug of coffee. "Good morning!" she says brightly, depositing the tray onto the bedside table beside a stunned Shelby. "I thought I'd make breakfast. I don't know how you like your coffee so I'll leave you to add whatever you like, but I think everything's there. It took me a while to find it all: your kitchen's a bombsite."

Shelby, having expected to be confronted by the fragile, distraught Rachel of the previous night, is at a complete loss for how to respond to this chirpy, talkative version. She opens her mouth, closes it again, then reopens it, all the while aware that she probably resembles a fish. "Thank you," she manages to choke out. Her head is struggling to keep up with these rapid mood changes, from silence, to despair, to bright (albeit false) cheeriness. She instead focuses on the one tangible thing amongst this whole host of craziness. "Where did the clothes come from?" she asks, gesturing towards the brightly coloured jumper and clashing skirt (she is sure Hiram and Leroy did an excellent job at bringing up their daughter, but _really_, is a little style advice from a couple of gay guys too much to ask?).

"These?" Rachel asks as she plucks absently at her sleeve. "I always carry spare."

Shelby's eyebrows rise in surprise as she leans over to add a spoonful of sugar to her coffee. Sugar in her drinks is a habit she managed to break a long time ago (when she was pregnant, in fact), but in times of stress she still finds she craves the sweet flavour, so occasionally caves and grants herself a spoonful. Frankly she's shocked Rachel managed to find it at all; given she uses the sugar so rarely it had likely migrated to the very back corner of a cupboard and Rachel's right, the room is a complete tip. "A whole outfit?" she says incredulously as she takes a sip from the steaming drink and promptly regrets it as it burns a trail down her throat. "Bit excessive, don't you think?"

"You can never be too prepared," Rachel replies evasively, and Shelby is sure she's missing something but decides to let it slide as Rachel gives her no entry and continues speaking. "So anyway, I've made a list of things we need to do. Obviously there're the funeral arrangements, I imagine we'll need to contact the hospital and find out about the... About the..." she trails away, eyes drifting for a second before she promptly shakes her head and recovers herself. "Yeah, contact the hospital. I'll need to get in touch with the insurance company and look at starting to-"

"Whoa, Rachel, sweetheart," Shelby cuts across her, eyes widening in surprise. "Don't you worry about all that. I can sort that stuff out." Indeed she has spent the better part of the night while she couldn't sleep running over everything that needs done in her head. Never for a moment did she expect Rachel to feel up to doing anything beyond possibly contribute a hymn choice.

The words have a marked effect. Rachel seems to deflate as all the energy and exuberance drains from her. Her shoulders slump and she looks every bit the exhausted, emotionally drained teenager. "I just thought..." she starts, before trailing away, apparently unable to articulate just what she had thought.

With a sigh, Shelby shifts across into the middle of the bed and pats the space she has created. "Come here," she says softly, and after a moment's hesitation Rachel complies, sitting cross-legged on the bed facing her mother. She is clutching a piece of paper with one hand and her eyes are downcast. "Let's see this list," Shelby suggests, and as she reaches out a hand to take the offered paper she brushes a strand of hair from Rachel's face. Part of her yearns to say something comforting, but then what would she say? It won't get better, not anytime soon, and it won't be okay. They both know it. Instead she decides to take her cue from Rachel; if her daughter wants to say something, no doubt she'll say it. Shelby glances over the list in her hand which comprises of about ten points and her stomach twists painfully at the thought of Rachel alone downstairs, writing about getting in touch with her estranged extended family. "Well, you've certainly been busy!" she comments, affecting a falsely cheery tone that is not unlike Rachel's. "What time did you get up?"

Rachel's eyes slide towards the clock and Shelby's follow. It reads 6:25, meaning Shelby can't have had more than three hours sleep, and Rachel probably less. "About half three," Rachel admits, her eyes still trained on the blinking screen. "I couldn't sleep."

"Half three!" Shelby echoes, turning back around to study Rachel critically. Indeed, her face is pale and ashen, and there are bags beneath her eyes. "Aren't you shattered?"

"Drained, maybe, not tired," Rachel replies with a small shrug. "Well, I couldn't sleep anyway, and I hated just lying there so I decided to get up and do something." She gestures towards Shelby's barely touched breakfast which, Shelby realises too late, will be almost cold.

Unwilling to let Rachel's work go to waste Shelby valiantly reaches across for a slice of toast then offers Rachel the plate. "Want one?" she asks, taking a bite from her own piece, which is still mercifully lukewarm.

Turning her face away as though the very thought makes her ill, Rachel shakes her head. "No thanks," she replies. "I already ate." Something in the way she won't meet Shelby's eyes makes Shelby suspect she's lying, but again she decides to let it go; she is sure a lack of appetite is only to be expected, given the circumstances.

There is silence for a few minutes, broken only by Shelby self-consciously chewing and swallowing her food. She hates listening to herself eat; usually the television or radio is on in the background, and besides when she's by herself it bothers her less. It is strange to imagine that twenty four hours ago she was living alone and now she is suddenly sharing her home with a teenager. "Mom?" Rachel's voice breaks Shelby from her thoughts and she smiles at her daughter, prompting her to continue. "Could you give me a lift into school this morning? I don't mean to bother you or anything, it's just I have no idea where I am, let alone how to get to McKinley."

Shelby swallows her last mouthful of toast and brushes the crumbs onto the empty plate. "It's not a problem driving you in any day Rachel, I don't live too far away, but are you sure going into school's the best idea today? You said yourself you hardly slept, and nobody will expect you in."

"I know," Rachel replies with a sigh and a shrug. "I just... I need to do something. And I am okay, honestly." Again the downcast eyes betray the lie and Shelby sighs.

"Sweetheart, nobody expects you to be okay," she says softly, reaching out and brushing Rachel's arm comfortingly. Rachel flinches away from the touch and jumps to her feet, causing Shelby to quickly withdraw her hand, stung.

Rachel rests her forehead against the wall with her back to the bed, her breathing heavy as she struggles to control her emotions. "Well I am," she mumbles almost petulantly and without turning around.

Shelby aches to reach forward and touch her daughter, for Rachel is clearly not okay, but remembering the reaction of moments ago she quells the urge and remains still. "_Rachel,"_ she implores, desperately trying to illicit some sort of response that she can work with.

Swiping at her eyes, Rachel turns around. There is no evidence to suggest she's been crying but her eyes are glistening with unshed tears. "Please," she whispers, staring directly into Shelby's eyes, and in that moment Shelby knows she will be unable to deny her daughter anything. "I just... I can't be _here_. I need to do something. I need everything to be normal."

Shelby nods slowly, knowing as she does she's going to be a terrible mother if she can't even deny her daughter this, but finding that right now she doesn't really care. She will do anything to ease that expression of anguish. It is an unexpected knowledge, but she supposes that is part of being a mother. "Okay," she finally acquiesces, and is rewarded when Rachel's face relaxes. "Okay, I'll drive you in at quarter past seven... No, wait!" She instantly regrets agreeing as she sees Rachel's face crumple once more. "Will – I mean Mr Schuester mentioned that social services were going to pop round this morning. They'll want to speak to you." The unspoken _'and check you actually want to live here' _hangs in the air.

Rachel, it seems, is prepared for this argument. Her face brightens slightly and she launches into her pre-prepared response. "But won't they want to speak to us separately anyway?" she asks, eyes wide. She already has Shelby worked out. The knowledge doesn't irritate Shelby as much as it might. "And they'll probably want to speak to my teachers, so they'll be coming to school - they can just talk to me there. Plus they didn't make an actual appointment, at least not with you. Just say Mr Schue forgot to pass on the message or something, he won't care."

The argument is not completely unreasonable. Seeing no way out - and not particularly willing to deny Rachel the only request she's made since arriving anyway - Shelby shrugs. "I suppose you're probably right," she accepts. Surely social services won't mind? Besides, Rachel has a point; they have yet to be in direct contact with her, so she can play dumb if necessary. "Okay, you can go to school on one condition."

Rachel sits back down on the far end of the bed, well out of Shelby's reach. "What's that?" she asks apprehensively.

Shelby remains silent for a moment, keeping her daughter in suspense, then her face melts into a smile. "You actually eat breakfast. You might be a good actress but you're a terrible liar."

GLEE!

Despite not having Rachel at home, Shelby decides to take the day off anyway. She's never ill so when she phones in coughing and spluttering (she, fortunately, is a very proficient liar) she is instantly believed, and told that _of course_ she can take the day off, that she should just take it easy until she feels better. In a rare moment of benevolence she adds that someone should tell Vocal Adrenaline that they can take the evening off; usually she would make them practise alone but it's so early in the term they don't know any numbers, and besides without Jesse there, the chances of them doing anything productive are slim to none.

Although she would've preferred Rachel's company, Shelby can't deny being alone for the day has its advantages in terms of productivity. Social services visit early with the news that Leroy and Hiram had changed their will in July to state that Shelby should be contacted in regard to Rachel in the event of their death (this initially surprises Shelby, until she remembers what Will has said about Rachel's extended family - or lack thereof - and realises also that Rachel must have told them Shelby had sought her out in the spring. They, unlike she, had realised there was some hope for a relationship). Consequently the process of Rachel's custody is much simpler, aided by the fact she is Rachel's biological mother and in a profession where she constantly deals with adolescents. Although they will have to run some background checks and speak to referees, there shouldn't be a problem – pending, of course, Rachel's agreement.

Their early arrival and consequently departure leaves Shelby with plenty of time to work her way through Rachel's admittedly comprehensive to-do list. She contacts the Berrys' relatives – and indeed is chilled by the response she receives from Hiram Berry's parents – as well as the hospital, the funeral home, the insurance company and the police. The latter are still refusing to confirm or deny any rumours and as she slams down the phone she considers that maybe shouting wasn't the most effective method of extracting information, but it was damn satisfying. Perhaps she has more pent up tension than she realised.

Shopping takes up the rest of the afternoon. Perhaps it wouldn't take so long if she didn't leave the mall between every shop to check Rachel hasn't tried to get in touch – cell reception is awful inside – but she considers it a worthwhile compromise. Finally at three thirty she pulls up outside McKinley High and doesn't have to wait long before the doors open and twelve people spill out. A group of jocks and cheerleaders lead the pack, followed by the usual clutter of misfits that seem to make up Schuester's choir, and finally Rachel at the rear, head down and clearly only half listening to the monologue being provided by the black girl walking beside her.

Shelby considers getting out of the car and making herself known but at that moment Rachel looks up and, after scanning the car park until her gaze falls on Shelby, gives a small wave of acknowledgement. Probably for the better; Shelby is not sure how New Directions (and no, she still cannot think that name without smirking) would respond to seeing their rivals' coach in their car park. Hopefully _not_ by slashing her tyres, but better to be safe than sorry.

Rachel goes to break away from the pack and Shelby cannot help but smile as even the jocks and cheerleaders at the front turn back with well-wishes and concerned expressions. She can't imagine Vocal Adrenaline behaving the same way, regardless of the circumstances. Having said that, Vocal Adrenaline's social standing within Carmel far exceeds that of New Directions at McKinley, and there are not the divisions that McKinley's choir suffers from - she makes sure of that. Shelby continues to watch as the team members take turns to give Rachel a hug or to pat her on the shoulder, until a tapping on her passenger window distracts her attention and causes her to turn. "Will," she smiles as she winds down the window, and she can't help but think again how very much things have changed in twenty four hours; this time yesterday he was receiving a biting response when he tried to contact her. "How're you doing?"

"Fine, thanks, and yourself?" he replies, leaning into the car and shooting her a smile in return. Her heart flutters ever so slightly.

"I'm fine," she replies dismissively. Pleasantries aside, she quickly flips the conversation to the topic of concern. "How's Rachel been?"

A sigh drops from his lips and she feels her stomach plummet. Will must have noticed her face fall, for he quickly backpedals. "It's not that bad," he assures her. "She's been... quiet. That in itself is odd, but only to be expected I suppose. The Glee kids have been great, but I don't think any of them really know what to say... well, some of them do, but I don't think she's really been listening to anyone." He sighs again. "The real kicker, though, is that she won't sing."

"She won't sing?" Shelby echoes uncertainly.

"Not a note. We're doing a _West Side Story_ number and naturally I offered her the lead – I've made _that_ mistake once before – but she refused. I've never seen the entire club stunned into silence before, but they were. She's usually all over anything from Broadway."

Shelby doesn't quite understand the middle of that statement but she doesn't have the chance to inquire further for Rachel has arrived and is standing beside Will. She's chewing her nails and looks even paler than she did this morning, but does at least lift her lips in a half-hearted attempt at a smile. "Hey, mom," she says. "Hey, Mr Schue."

Will returns the greeting then steps back and opens the door to allow Rachel to slide into the passenger seat. Once she's settled he leans back into the still open window and places a bracing hand on her shoulder. "Take care, both of you," he says with a sad smile. "Shelby, just give me a call if I can do anything."

"I will do, thanks Will," Shelby replies, ignoring the fluttering in her chest. "I'll see you later."

He steps back and waves as Shelby shifts the car into reverse and pulls away. Rachel watches him as they leave, but Shelby doesn't think she's really seeing anything for she doesn't once raise her hand to return the gesture. Neither Rachel nor Shelby talk as she indicates and pulls out onto the road, and the silence persists for a good five minutes. Every now and again Shelby chances a quick look at Rachel, but she is still gazing unblinkingly out of the passenger window. Eventually Shelby realises that if she wants conversation, she's going to have to make it. "How was your day?" she asks, glancing over to check Rachel's reaction. Her face remains impassive.

"It was fine," she replies and Shelby sighs quietly. Monosyllables it is.

"How was Glee?"

"Fine. Good. We did _I Feel Pretty." _Rachel does not volunteer the information that she chose not to sing and Shelby decides not to ask. They continue in silence for a while longer until Rachel finally breaks the silence. "Mom?"

Shelby glances at her again and sees that Rachel is twisting her fingers in her lap nervously. "Yes?" she replies, feeling a flutter of nerves herself. Rachel has been brooding for the past ten minutes – and by the sounds of it all day – and she has a feeling she's about to find out why.

"Do they know what started it... the fire I mean?"

Shelby feels the breath knocked out of her, and she shoots another glance at Rachel to assess what she knows. Her face is twisted and obviously nervous, but there is no trace of anger or resentment, which Shelby would have expected had she heard about the supposed hate crime. Shelby takes a couple of deep breaths to calm her thumping heart and desperately tries to decide what to say. "I don't..." she starts carefully. "I've no idea, sorry sweetheart. Give it time." The lie burns at her throat, but she tries to convince herself that _really_ she doesn't know; after all, all she's heard is a rumour.

Apparently this isn't the answer Rachel was looking for, for her face crumples. "Oh," she replies.

Sensing silence is imminent once again, Shelby searches for something to keep the conversation flowing. "Do you want to get something to eat?" she asks, remembering Rachel's earlier reluctance to be in the house. "We could go and get a pizza or something?"

Rachel glances at her, and something which Shelby can't quite read flicks across her features. "No thanks," she replies evenly, returning her gaze to the passenger window and watching the world speed past.

"Are you sure?" Shelby presses. "It doesn't have to be pizza; we can get whatever you fancy."

"No thanks," Rachel repeats, a definite edge in her voice this time.

They're near the outskirts of town now, and Shelby flicks her indicator and pulls left. Perhaps, she reasons, Rachel simply wants a night in. That's perfectly understandable. "There's a rental shop down here, we could get a DVD if you like and pick up a takeaway?"

"I don't need anything from _you_, okay, so could you just drop it?" Rachel snaps. Hurt, Shelby glances over and Rachel immediately drops her gaze. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, seemingly regretting her outburst already. "I didn't mean it, I'm just... tired. I'm really sorry."

Shelby stares straight ahead, trying to blink back the tears brought on, no doubt, by her own exhaustion. "It's fine," she assures Rachel without any real conviction. "I know you didn't mean it." _But she did,_ niggles a small voice, and certainly Shelby has not missed the inflexion in Rachel's outburst. Years of both acting and teaching drama have taught her to _listen_ to people but she wishes, as she pulls into her driveway, that she had not _heard_. The message couldn't be much clearer: _you had your chance to be my mom and you blew it._


	5. of Acquaintances and Anger, part III

So there's going to be yet another Shelby part once this one is done. What can I say? The scenes I have planned out just keep growing, and I can do nothing but keep writing. There _will_ only be the one more part after this though, then we'll be on to the Glee kids. For those of you keen for their entrance, a couple make an appearance in this chapter. I'd like to once again extend my thanks to all the readers and reviewers, you keep me inspired and writing more. Particular thanks go to the reviewers of part 4: _Gigi18, AliceCullenForever101 _(one of the things that's been really interesting for me in writing this story is trying to show how Rachel's feeling from other people's perspectives, which can't really begin to demonstrate the true depth of her emotions. It can make her actions seem irrational, since we don't know what's going on in her head. It's been a real challenge, and I'm looking forward to being able to write from her POV), _JackyKay, KateGreysFan _(my longest one yet, so hopefully you can keep scrolling for a while!), _shinecsc, MarlisaKristine _(I always love reading your reviews, so thanks for the feedback! And I had to google HBIC, I didn't know what that meant, but it's a good acronym for Shelby xD), _Vibiscuous _(no - I totally love getting reviews but I also know what it's like to feel like I'm saying the same thing chapter after chapter, so feel free just to leave a review if you have something specific to say - I already know you're reading!), _GGabz _(sorry to hear I made you cry!) and _reillyt4. _So without further ado:

**Shelby: of Acquaintances and Anger, part III**

For the second time in as many days Shelby is collapsed on the sofa, eyes closed and on the edge of drifting off to sleep when her phone vibrates on the coffee table, jolting her from her doze. She sits up and her neck screams its protests at the unnatural angle it has been in for the past hour. Resolving not to fall asleep again other than in an actual bed, Shelby reaches over and scoops up the cell, glancing at the screen before rolling her eyes. _Excellent. _Just what she needs right now: teenage dramatics. She flicks open the phone and props her elbow on the armrest. "Hello Jesse," she greets flatly.

His voice is predictably frantic. "Shelby!" he exclaims with relief, and she can hear his agitated footsteps down the phone as he paces. "I've just heard the news. What happened? Is she okay? She's staying with you right? How is she? Do you think I should come back and see her?" Jesse always did have an impressive set of lungs; he manages to ask all five questions in one breath.

Nursing the beginnings of a headache, Shelby readjusts her position on the settee to make herself more comfortable. She senses this is going to be a long conversation. "Yes, she's staying with me," she replies, sifting through his barrage of queries in search of the easiest ones to answer. "And no Jesse, you need to stay put and get settled. You've barely arrived and frankly you'll be the last person she wants to see right now." She is far too tired to worry about sparing his feelings. Despite the fact his behaviour and regular protests would suggest otherwise, Shelby knows Jesse well enough to recognise that he still cares about Rachel, and indeed that he regrets the way things ended between them. She damn near murdered him when she found out about the egging incident; although she was furious with the entire team he was the only one she had _trusted_ to be better. Still, he had shown genuine remorse, and Shelby couldn't quite bring herself to remain angry at the kid. She had, after all, orchestrated the entire shambles of a relationship up until that stage.

Shelby is well aware that she and Jesse blurred the lines of respectable student-teacher relationship long ago, but in her defence he has little else in the way of adult support and sometimes he just needs someone to talk to. Since he has left Carmel they have remained in touch, and indeed he sounds a good deal happier at UCLA than she has heard him in a long time. For this she is grateful, but she still has no intention of allowing him anywhere near Rachel, especially at the moment. He lets out an exaggerated sigh and she smirks down the phone; he never could help himself when it came to dramatics. "I suppose you're right," he accepts, as though such an admission pains him. It probably does. "So how's she doing?"

It is Shelby's turn to sigh, although hers is a good deal softer and less dramatic. "She's alright, as well as can be expected," she tells him, unwilling to go into specifics but expecting he'll recognise a lie. He always could read her far too well. "I'll tell her you were asking after her," she adds, knowing this will appease him.

"Thanks," he exhales, and Shelby can tell the initial shock that resulted in the frantic phone call is wearing off, for his voice shifts into a more conversational tone and she can hear the tapping of a keyboard in the background. "So tell me, what actually happened? I didn't get the chance to ask Quinn."

This is the first Shelby has heard that Jesse is still on speaking terms with any of New Directions, but she shrugs off the knowledge. It figures that if he were going to befriend any of them it would be the blond ex-cheerleader. He may be theatrical in every sense of the word, but sometimes he's such a _male._ "There was a fire at her house," she informs him, mirroring his tone and propping her feet up onto the table. "Rumour has it that it was a hate crime gone wrong but the police aren't-"

A clatter cuts Shelby's explanation short and she whips her head around – ignoring her neck's protests – her feet falling to the floor with a thud. Rachel is stood near the bottom of the stairs, mouth agape and all the blood drained from her face. Her open schoolbag is laying at her feet, the contents strewn across the bottom few steps. She is rooted to the spot. "Rachel," Shelby breathes, ignoring Jesse's rambling in her left ear about how passionately he feels for gay rights. "I'll have to call you back," she cuts across his monologue swiftly, before allowing her hand to drop and the phone to snap closed. She stands up and takes brisk strides across the room, stopping just short of the foot of the stairs. "Rachel, sweetheart..."

"I was coming down to do some work," Rachel offers, gesturing towards the clutter at her feet. She sounds almost like she is in a trance and she determinedly avoids meeting Shelby's eyes. "Thought it might help keep... keep my mind off things. No sense in getting behind."

Ignoring this, Shelby takes another step forwards, her cell still clutched loosely in her left hand. "Rachel... I'm so sorry, I never meant for you to find out like this. Do you want to talk about it?" Her heart is thumping loudly in her chest and her stomach is twisting nervously. She desperately wants to take another step towards her daughter but as she moves to do so Rachel's head snaps up and the dazed expression clears to be replaced by one of anger.

"Don't," she hisses, retreating a couple of steps. "Just... don't."

"_Rachel," _Shelby implores, simultaneously apologetic for the lie and irritated at her daughter's tone. "Rachel, I'm sorry."

Rachel's fists are clenching and unclenching and she appears to be struggling to control her temper. "Do you know why I asked if you knew what had happened?" she shoots at Shelby, who shakes her head warily. "I was lying in bed last night, and I couldn't sleep, and I started to think about it. At first I was sure I could remember turning my straighteners off yesterday morning, but then the more I thought about it, the more I wasn't sure. I just lay there, and the more I thought about it, the more sure I became that I hadn't." Her voice catches and Shelby, realising what Rachel is saying, feels bile rise in her throat.

"Rachel..." She moves to take another step forward, cursing herself for finding no words to adequately finish the sentence.

"Don't! I told you, just don't!" Rachel retorts hotly, her face twisting in anger and resentment. "I've spent all day thinking I _killed_ them. What right did you possibly have not to tell me?"

The question hangs between them and Shelby, knowing she cannot possibly come up with a satisfactory answer, simply shakes her head. "Rachel, I'm so sorry," she murmurs, guilt bubbling in her stomach as Rachel's face contorts in pain. She is acutely aware that her job is supposed to be to go somewhere towards alleviating the grief, not adding to it, and at the moment she is failing miserably. "I just... There wasn't a right time to tell you, and sweetheart, it's only hearsay. The police haven't confirmed anything."

If this statement has any effect it is only to further stoke Rachel's anger. "Not a right time?" she snaps hotly, face now red, blotchy and tear-streaked. "How about when I asked? How about then?" Shelby says nothing and after a moment Rachel gives a snarl of anger, before turning and stomping up the stairs in a storm-out that would do Jesse St. James proud.

"Rachel," Shelby shouts after her, her own anger rising unbidden. Shock and grief she can sympathise with, but she never has - and never will - have any patience for teenage temper tantrums. "Rachel, we need to talk about this!" The shout is met by silence and then, a moment later, the slamming of a door.

Shelby just about makes her way back across to the settee before her legs give out from underneath her and she collapses backwards. Headache now firmly pounding, she pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, trying to quell the wave of nausea brought on by this latest revelation. She can't even begin to make sense of the tidal wave of different emotions washing over her. She's Shelby Corcoran, for fuck's sake; she's spent the better part of sixteen years avoiding any and every situation that could result in this level of personal stress. And she loves her daughter, she does, but she's pretty sure she's nearing her wit's end.

GLEE!

An hour and a half, two mindless (but suitably gory) _CSI_ episodes, and half a bottle of wine later, the pounding has finally alleviated and the confusing tangle of emotions has settled to a slightly more manageable web. The anger she had felt at Rachel had drained away almost as quickly as it had surfaced, to be replaced by a mixture of guilt and hopelessness which she is trying valiantly to ignore. The shower has been running upstairs for the past half hour, but it's just been switched off and Shelby is currently steeling herself to go and face her daughter.

Downing the last of her wine and taking a deep breath, Shelby gets to her feet. She walks through to the kitchen and swills out her empty glass, all the thoughts she has been suppressing in favour of gruesome murders for the past ninety minutes rushing back to the forefront of her mind. Most prominent is the mixture of guilt and horror that Rachel could even _think_ she is the blame for the events of yesterday, and that she, Shelby, didn't recognise the signs for what they were. The difference between quiet grief and stewing guilt were, in hindsight, painfully obvious.

She squeezes her tired eyes shut and braces herself against the sink, feeling too fatigued to support her own weight for any longer. Momentarily she considers Will's offer – _"just give me a call if I can do anything" _– but then, what would she say? What can he do? While she longs for the support of the man who seems to have Rachel figured out through and through, she also recognises that this one, unfortunately, is all on her.

The sound of a clearing throat and shuffling footsteps causes her to spin around. Rachel is standing nervously in the doorway, hair dripping wet and eyes ringed in red. She is wringing her hands together – a sign Shelby has quickly come to associate with nerves – and chewing her lower lip. Her eyes are skimming around the room, looking anywhere but at Shelby, and Shelby has the distinct impression that her daughter is struggling for something to say (a problem which does not often trouble her, if Will is to be believed). Shelby straightens herself in preparation for whatever confrontation is coming, and the movement seems to stir Rachel into speech. She closes her eyes for a brief second then brings them up to meet Shelby's. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I shouldn't have shouted at you like that. I know you only did what you thought was best for me."

Shelby feels the knot in her stomach loosen a little, and she quickly closes the remaining distance between the two, taking Rachel's small hands in her own. "Sweetheart, I'm the one who ought to be sorry. You're right; I should have told you straight away, I just didn't want to upset you." _I'm still learning _she adds in her head.

Rachel offers her a watery smile and pulls one of her hands away to rub at her eyes. She takes a deep breath, blinking rapidly, and Shelby squeezes her other hand comfortingly while the wave of emotion passes. After a few seconds Rachel smiles again, a good deal more brightly if not entirely convincingly. "I know it's too late to go to the rental shop now, but is there any chance we could watch that DVD?" she asks hopefully. "I'm tired, but I don't reckon I could sleep yet."

Breathing an ill disguised sigh of relief, Shelby nods. "Of course," she replies, squeezing Rachel's hand again and leading her back through to the living room. The knot of guilt and worry is still present but it's no longer nauseating, more of a constant, unwelcome presence. Without letting go of Rachel's hand, Shelby kneels before the DVD cabinet. "Let's see what we've got. Right, what do you fancy?" she asks, eyes skimming the titles. "Comedy? Action? Musical?"

"Oh, definitely musical," Rachel replies, kneeling down next to Shelby and casting her own eye upon the DVDs. Shelby smiles: she will never cease to be amazed by how similar they are. Rachel may have grown up entirely without the influence of her mother, but nobody could deny the uncanny resemblance in both looks and personality. At this thought the smile falls away from her face and she turns her attention back to the selection of musicals. "How about _Les Mis_?" Rachel asks, pulling out the box and scanning the cover.

"_Les Mis _it is," Shelby replies easily, knowing that if Rachel had asked to watch _High School Musical_ she would have driven to the nearest rental shop and demanded they open (although she desperately hopes her daughter has better taste). In a rather impressive one-handed movement she grabs the box, takes out the DVD and slots it into the disc drive, before standing up and pulling Rachel with her towards the settee.

The pair settle onto the sofa, Rachel's right hand still firmly clamped in Shelby's left. Neither of them speaks as Shelby navigates through the menu screen and adjusts the volume (she'd had _CSI_ on low just in case Rachel happened to be listening; the last thing she needs to hear right now are the gruesome sounds associated with murder) but eventually as the opening credits start to roll Rachel shuffles restlessly, clearly building herself up to say something. "Mom?" she finally asks in a cautious voice, staring fixedly at their intertwined hands before glancing up. "What actually happened? You know, with the fire?"

Sensing this is going to be a conversation best conducted without a rousing orchestra in the background, Shelby hits the pause button, frantically trying to collect her thoughts while keeping her face neutral. "I don't know for sure," she starts slowly, choosing her words carefully and watching Rachel for any reaction. "Mr Schuester asked a journalist who told him that she'd overheard the fire chief telling the police-" Even as the words come out of her mouth she realises how ridiculous the grapevine sounds and falls silent.

"Who said..?" Rachel prompts after a brief pause.

Shelby sighs, deciding to take a different tact. Beating about the bush won't help either of them. "Basically, the papers are reporting that it was a hate crime, but the time of day suggests whoever did it didn't think anybody would be in the house," she admits, pronouncing each word clearly. "They broke in downstairs and set the place alight while your parents were upstairs, then did a runner. The fire caught too quickly for anybody to be able to do anything once it became obvious that people were home." Rachel's face remains impassive. "Nobody was supposed to get hurt, but I know that doesn't make it any better."

Rachel's eyes, which have not left Shelby's throughout this speech, rapidly begin to fill with tears. Without thinking Shelby palms the back of Rachel's head and pulls it down to rest on her shoulder, and within seconds she becomes aware of a dampness filtering through the thin cotton of her t-shirt. She feels Rachel's free hand grasping at the front of her top, squeezing the material tightly, and the other has a death-grip around Shelby's fingers. For a couple of minutes there is silence other than Rachel's sniffs and Shelby's occasional murmuring reassurances.

Just as the tears seem to have run dry and Shelby is considering reaching for the remote, she is startled by Rachel's voice, speaking in a tone quite unlike any she has heard previously. "I hate them," Rachel croaks, and Shelby is shocked at the venom injected into the words. "I thought I hated lots of people before – like Mr Schue when he was constantly trying to destroy my career – but I didn't. But whoever did this, I hate them so much. I want them to hurt too."

Unable to come up with a suitable response for this declaration, Shelby simply restarts the DVD. By the time Fantine starts singing _I Dreamed a Dream_ Rachel is fast asleep with her head still on Shelby's shoulder, but Shelby knows it will be a long time until she is able to put aside her daughter's menacing words and follow suit.

GLEE!

Saturday passes in relative peace. Shelby spends the bulk of the day arranging a piece for Vocal Adrenaline's Sectionals performance. It is still a few months away but she has serious concerns about her team this year, so the longer they have to practise the better. As usual Nationals had gone off without a hitch the previous summer - they had acquired yet another trophy to add to their already impressive collection - but Shelby is aware that the loss of both Jesse and Andrea is a serious blow to the group. As of yet there are no obvious contenders for either male or female lead, a situation which would usually cause her - and by consequence of her sour mood, Vocal Adrenaline - a great deal of stress. At the moment she can't quite bring herself to care, but feels she ought to inject at least some effort into this arrangement as it's going to be more important than ever to cover up the weaker vocals.

Throughout the day she hears very little from Rachel. From time-to-time she goes upstairs to check on her, and although a number of times she catches her with telltale red-rimmed eyes, Shelby doesn't see her crying. As far as Shelby can tell Rachel spends most of her day researching medieval torture methods. When questioned, Rachel insists it's for a history essay, although personally Shelby has her doubts. She has no detailed knowledge of the history curriculum, but is fairly sure it consists of mainly recent history. Certainly the diagrams Rachel is pouring over hardly seem school appropriate.

Shelby accepts Rachel's refusal of both breakfast and lunch, but by dinner she's growing increasingly concerned about her daughter's blood sugar levels, a concern which is ill-received. The argument is not quite as vicious as the one of the previous night and within half an hour of the blow up Rachel is sat downstairs stabbing moodily at her vegan-friendly pasta. Still, Shelby gets the distinct impression that these are the first of what are likely to be many petty arguments in the coming weeks. Rachel has been both snappy and on-edge since last night, and while Shelby can understand she's tired and grieving, she doesn't know how long she'll be able to put up with tiptoeing around her own house.

It isn't until Sunday at about midday that their peaceful bubble is finally disturbed. As Shelby goes to get the front door she becomes suddenly very aware of the world continuing to turn outside, and of the growing list of reasons why she really needs to go out; apart from anything else she is fast running out of food she can feed a vegan. She pulls open the door and quickly places two members of New Directions: the black girl Rachel left school with on Friday, and a slim blonde who Shelby immediately recognises as Quinn Fabray, the girl who went into labour during Regionals. "Hello," she smiles politely, opening the door more widely and stepping back to allow them entrance. "Here to see Rachel?"

The two girls return the greeting, stepping inside nervously and nodding their affirmation. "Yeah," replies the girl who has just introduced herself as Mercedes. (If Shelby remembers correctly, she has quite a set of lungs herself; it's typical that Schuester would get all the luck when it comes to female leads. The man's probably never had to struggle to find a woman to do _anything_ in his entire bloody life.) "We just wanted to see how she was doing. See if there was anything we could do, you know?"

Shelby nods and smiles, glancing over at Quinn. Quinn looks considerably less relaxed than her companion; her eyes are dancing around the hallway and she has her arms folded protectively across her newly flat stomach. Shelby can hardly blame her; the last time they spoke was just after Regionals when Shelby surprised even herself by following New Directions to the hospital to speak to the new parents. To this day she remains unsure of what exactly possessed her to get in the car, though she suspects that it has something to do with how much of her own history she could see in Quinn Fabray, both in the girl's present and, unfortunately, her future. At least she had known what she was getting into all those years ago; Quinn was just a kid who had made a couple of bad choices and had found herself faced with an impossible decision.

"Why don't you go on upstairs?" Shelby offers, realising they're waiting for her to speak. She wonders whether she ought to warn Rachel of the company first, but suspects her daughter would ask for them to leave. While Shelby can respect a desire for some alone time, she also feels slightly guilty for allowing Rachel to stew in her room for the past twenty-four hours. The reason is largely selfish: she has no clue what she could say or do to help, so has avoided the situation entirely. Hopefully though, Rachel's friends will have a better idea. "Rachel's the second door on the left," she tells them, gesturing up the stairs.

"Thanks, Ms. Corcoran," Mercedes returns brightly and Quinn, after a beat where she seems to snap back to reality, repeats the sentiment. The girls hurry upstairs and Shelby wanders back through to the kitchen and her laptop where she has been searching for vegan recipes. The kitchen is already in a far better state than it was two days ago, for Shelby feels if she's going to have a child in the house she probably ought to at least be able to provide some decent meals. It's not that she's a bad cook – she's actually fairly competent – but cooking for one feels like a waste of time, so normally she just grabs a takeaway or doesn't bother at all. She has a feeling that over the coming months her body's going to become quite familiar with tofu.

She has found four new cookery websites to add to her favourites by the time the sound of footsteps behind her causes her to turn. Quinn is standing nervously in the doorway, looking surprised to find Shelby in the kitchen. "Mercedes has Rachel talking about all these different Broadway directors," she offers after a moment's pause. "I like singing and all that, but I'm a little out of my depth when those two get started. I thought I'd get a glass of water before my brain explodes, if that's okay?"

Shelby laughs and nods, pointing up towards the corner cupboard. "Glasses are up there, and there's some cold water in the fridge."

"Thanks," Quinn replies, relaxing slightly as she moves toward the cupboard.

For a minute only the sound of clinking glass and tapping keys fills the room. Shelby is fast beginning to wonder how on earth Hiram and Leroy managed to feed their daughter for sixteen years; she reckons she'll manage about five days before she'll be out of fresh recipies. Deciding to worry about it later, she snaps shut the laptop and her eyes drift across to Quinn, who's just closing the fridge door. "I didn't realise you and Rachel were friends," she remarks, leaning back in her chair and stretching her stiffening arms.

The question makes Quinn visibly uncomfortable. Shelby is no fool; she knows where her daughter stands on the social food chain, as well as where cheerleading captain would have placed Quinn a year ago. Teaching high school for thirteen years also means she's very aware of the implication of these hierarchy positions. "Oh, well, we're not really," Quinn admits, almost guiltily. "But she was really great about the whole pregnancy thing, and she didn't have to be. I figured the least I could do was return the favour, you know?" Shelby feels a welcome flutter of pride for her daughter.

"What about Mercedes?" Shelby asks, gesturing to the chair opposite her. Looking distinctly cornered Quinn accepts the invitation and sits, while Shelby struggles to hide her smirk. Tormenting teenagers always did help improve her mood. "Are she and Rachel friends?" Shelby figures that she might as well make the most of the opportunity to find out as much about Rachel as possible. Asking one of Rachel's peers for information feels less like admitting defeat than asking her teacher. If pushed Shelby would admit this is probably because she feels less threatened by Quinn; she always suffers a stab of jealousy whenever Will provides an insight into Rachel's life, almost as though they are in competition.

Quinn takes a sip of her glass of water, clearly trying to buy for time. "They have their moments," she says after a brief pause. "It's... It's weird, with Rachel. I don't know that any of us are really _friends_ with her – well, maybe Finn and Puck – and she can be irritating as hell, but we all care about her." She twirls the glass absently. "Like, after the whole egging thing, Mr Schue practically had to tie all the guys down to stop them going after Vocal Adrenaline." Quinn apparently remembers who she is talking to, for she abruptly falls silent.

For her part Shelby is both gratified that Rachel clearly has someone watching her back, and relieved that Will spared her the necessity of explaining to the Regionals judges why her team were performing _Bohemian Rhapsody_ with their faces an assorted hue of black, blue and purple (although frankly she'd have put good money on Schuester's choir being the ones to get mangled in a confrontation; four years of acrobatics mean her own seniors have pretty damn well developed arm muscles). "Puck?" Shelby asks, trying to place the name. She knows who Finn is – she could hardly fail to notice when he spent the entire rendition of _Faithfully_ making doe eyes at her daughter. "Isn't he..."

"The baby daddy?" Quinn finishes the question matter-of-factly. "Yeah, that's him. Bit of a womanizer really, but Rachel doesn't take any crap from him, and I think he respects her for that."

_That's my girl, _Shelby finds herself thinking, and is immediately surprised by the notion. Unwilling to explore exactly what this means in front of Quinn, she searches for a distraction. Her eyes flick back to the girl and narrow calculatingly. "And how're you doing?" she asks. "Heard anything about... Beth, isn't it? You decided on an open adoption in the end?"

Quinn shrugs in what's clearly meant to be a nonchalant manner. Her acting is about as proficient as Rachel's lying. "Semi-open," she says. "I get sent letters and stuff but I've agreed to keep my distance. I thought that was best... Give her a fair chance to grow up in a normal family."

"Yeah," Shelby agrees, thinking back to her own blatant flouting of a very similar agreement and considering what she would have done if she were in Quinn's position when Rachel was born. By that point she'd signed so many contracts that backing out would have been a logistical and legal nightmare, but she often wonders what would have happened if she'd kept her daughter. It's tough to admit sometimes, but looking at the strong, confident young woman Rachel has become, she knows she did the right thing by going through with the adoption. "You know Quinn, what you did was really brave," Shelby says, once again surprising herself with the empathy she feels for the girl. "I know how easy it would've been to keep her, but you made the best decision for both of you." To her immense horror, Quinn's eyes begin to fill up with tears. "Don't cry!" Shelby exclaims, already well past her natural limit of dealing with crying teenagers.

Mercifully Quinn rapidly blinks back the tears. "I didn't mean to," she admits, smiling despite her wet eyes. "I just... I always wonder if I did the right thing, you know? Sometimes I just need to hear that I did, but nobody can really say. I mean... They all try and they mean well, but they don't really understand. You do though. So thanks." When Shelby opens her mouth then promptly snaps it shut again, Quinn simply smiles knowingly and gets to her feet to rinse her empty glass in the sink.

Suddenly weary, Shelby rests her face in her palms to ease the tired stinging in her eyes. This conversation has brought back all her old feelings and she suddenly wonders what on earth she's _doing_. Rachel deserves so much better than a mother who abandoned her. Twice. What _possessed_ her to think she could possibly be adequate for this important a job?

When Shelby looks up again Quinn is almost out the door, but suddenly she falters then turns wearing a resolute expression. "She's really lucky to have you, Ms. Corcoran," she says firmly. "I know what it's like to lose your parents and then kind of get your mom back, even though she's already left once. It'll be hard for her and she might not really know how to act, but don't think she's not grateful or that she doesn't need you. She does." She exits the kitchen then, leaving a stunned Shelby in her wake.

Since when were teenagers so damn insightful?


	6. of Acquaintances and Anger, part IV

Last Shelby part - it's been a long time coming, considering this chapter was only meant to be split into two! Just when I'd started to get used to writing her, as well. My thanks as usual go to the reviewers who never fail to make my day: _JackyKay _(Quinn & Jesse was nothing more than a mention to be honest - they're friends and they keep in touch but they're on different sides of the country so I wouldn't worry), _Vienna98, Anna, KateGreysFan _and _AliceCullenForever101. _You all rock!

**Shelby: of Acquaintances and Anger, part IV**

"Five, six, seven-and-eigh- Oh, for God's sake Baker, if I'd wanted a dancing monkey I'd have gone to the zoo! It's _jump_ on six, _twist _on seven. Surely that's not too much to compute. From the top, everyone." A collective groan starts to rise from the stage but they quickly fall silent as Shelby raises a questioning eyebrow, just daring one of them to complain. She's feeling strained, irritable and unreasonable, and would like nothing better than to vent her frustrations on an unsuspecting teenager, but unfortunately the team seem to have recognised her foul mood and are wisely choosing to toe the line.

At least the vocals seem to be coming together; this is the second night running of long practises and finally a couple decent singers are starting to stand out. Unfortunately their choreography still leaves a great deal to be desired. They seem to have lost the ability to move in sync with one another over the summer, and any patience Shelby had at the start of the rehearsal is fast waning. Still, they've been going for four hours straight, and the freshmen are unused to the demanding schedule whereas the older pupils are out of practise. She sighs. "Fine, take five. Drink a red bull. I want you all cartwheeling back onto this stage, you've got so much energy." The newest members exchange nervous glances apparently trying to work out whether or not she's kidding but, unwilling to let the opportunity of a break slide, they quickly disperse.

It's not until the auditorium has emptied and Shelby is reshuffling her papers that she hears the sound of footsteps approaching from behind. "Unless your limb's literally hanging off, I don't want to hear it," she snaps without looking up. "Take a painkiller and suck it up, it won't kill you."

The newcomer laughs and Shelby finally turns, realising it isn't one of her Vocal Adrenaline kids (apart from anything else, they all have too strong a sense of self-preservation to _laugh_ at her in a mood like this). "Will," she greets, rising swiftly to her feet. Her stomach twists in concern at his arrival but then she catches sight of his amused expression and lets out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. He wouldn't look like that if something was wrong with Rachel. "Spying already?" she asks, trying not to let the tension show. "I know you guys need as much help as you can get, but honestly, you could at least wait for the Invitational before you come poking around."

Will laughs again before stepping forward and engulfing her in a hug. She manages to react with slightly less surprise this time, forcing her body to relax into his and surprising herself with the comfort she finds in the contact. After a few seconds he breaks away, grinning, and Shelby feels the remaining tension drain from her body. "Ah, but I've got my woman on the inside now, no need for spying anymore," he points out, eyes twinkling. "Besides, if all we have to worry about is a band of... what was it? 'Dancing monkeys?' I think we're doing alright."

Rolling her eyes, she sinks down in one of the spectator seats feeling suddenly very tired and gestures for him to do the same. "Ah, remember what I told you," she replies teasingly. "They said I couldn't take Nationals with a number-"

"-A number preformed entirely on their hands," he finishes, dropping down into the seat next to her. "But you did, of course. How could I forget?"

She grins, remembering the night that conversation had taken place. His personal life had been even more of a train wreck than hers, which had been somewhat comforting. "Exactly. So just think what I could do with a troop of dancing monkeys." (Basically what she's dealing with at the moment, but _that's_ beside the point.) "You underestimate me, Schuester, that's your first mistake."

He shakes his head, laughing easily, and leans forwards ever-so-slightly. Without realising what she's doing she finds herself doing the same, closing the distance between them so their shoulders knock together, sending a pleasant jolt through her middle. She pulls back apologetically, trying to force back the unfamiliar blush she can feel creeping through her cheeks. "I might've made a lot of mistakes regarding you in the past, Shelby, but underestimating you isn't one of them. You used to terrify me!" He admits this with a mischievous grin, emphasising the _used to_, and suddenly Shelby is wondering whether their shoulder brush really was an accident.

"And I don't anymore? Damn, you'll have to tell me what I'm doing wrong," she teases to cover her momentary embarrassment. She's forgotten what this is like, this easy banter with a friend about nothing and everything. For a minute she allows stress about Vocal Adrenaline, worries about Rachel and insecurities about her own role – she can't quite bring herself to think 'as a mother' - to slide from her mind, leaving her blissfully calm.

"I've just figured out that there's more to you than meets the eye," he informs her confidently.

She sits back, crossing her arms across her chest and raising an eyebrow. "Is that so?" she challenges.

He nods seriously, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "I've seen past your tough exterior, Shelby Corcoran."

"Keep your voice down!" she replies in a stage-whisper, affecting an expression of deepest horror. "Can't have my kids hearing that."

He leans further forwards, a wicked expression on his face, and it is all Shelby can do to keep her breathing at a steady rate. Her heart rate's already a lost cause; she's sure its loud thumping must have given her away by now. "Can't have them hearing what? That behind the steely outer shell there's a cute, fluffy centre?" he breathes, voice barely above a whisper, breath tickling her neck.

For a moment their eyes lock and then suddenly it's all Shelby can do to keep herself seated, she's laughing so hard. "Excuse me while I go and vomit," she chokes out, and soon they're both laughing. Shelby's not even sure what's so funny, all she knows is that she _needs_ this. She needs to laugh. Because God knows, it's nice to think something in her life at the moment is worth smiling about. It's a sobering thought, and after a few moments the laughter dies from both their lips. It echoes through the empty auditorium for a few seconds longer before there's silence.

"So," Will says after a brief pause. He casts a side-long glance at Shelby, which she pretends not to notice in favour of eyeing her nails. They really need filed; she has an image to maintain after all, teenage daughter or otherwise. "You sound like you're just getting started... long rehearsal?"

Shelby is not naive; she knows full well what he's hinting at and finds herself bristling slightly at the intrusion. "Something like that," she replies evasively, unwilling to play straight into his hands. If he's going to persist down this line of questioning, she has no intention of making it easy for him. "Got to get them whipped into shape before I get Dakota Stanley in. He'd have had a heart attack if he saw them today."

Apparently Will has no qualms about persisting, for he ignores her mention of the choreographer and goes for a more direct tact. "What about Rachel?"

"What about her?" Shelby snaps irritably. Even she is surprised by how volatile her emotions are these days; she has gone from irritation to hysterics and back in the space of about three minutes. She cannot remember the last time she felt emotion so acutely, let alone allowed it to play havoc with her moods. Usually emotion is reserved solely for performance, but these last few days she's been struggling to keep it under control. "She has a key and money to get home. She's hardly spoken two words to me since Saturday night so it shouldn't make a difference where I am. Figured I might as well do something usefu with my timel." Shelby is shocked by how bitter she sounds.

Will's face instantly softens and he reaches out to place a comforting hand on her knee. "Shelby, you don't really think-"

"Was there a reason you're here?" she cuts him off sharply, getting to her feet swiftly so that his hand falls away. She crosses her own arms across her chest and takes a step back, distancing herself from him and his cursed pitying tone.

Undeterred he stands too, rubbing a hand over the afternoon shadow starting to build on his chin. He seems to consider for a moment. "Yes. I came to check on you," he admits after a beat, dropping his hand to hang limply by his side.

Shelby, having expected a lecture on proper parenting technique, deflates slightly, confused. "On me?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. "Why?"

Apparently sensing the slight drop in hostility Will takes a step towards Shelby, once again closing the gap. She doesn't move, just keeps her eyes fixed unblinkingly and challengingly on his. "I just wanted to see how you're coping with everything. Big change, having a teenager come to live with you - especially a one as high maintenance as Rachel!"

The attempt at a joke falls flat, but Shelby finds herself oddly touched by his concern. "Oh, well sure. But I'm fine, everything's going fine," she says quickly and, even to her own ears, utterly unconvincingly. _Sort yourself out, woman,_ she berates herself. She's supposed to be an actress. She's _Shelby Corcoran._ The more often she finds herself repeating the mantra over the passing days, the less effect it seems to have. Right now, she's not entirely sure who Shelby Corcoran is.

"Shelby..."

"Seriously Will," she says, her voice stronger this time. "We're... adjusting." _Adjusting to avoiding one another._ Shelby is not a woman to easily admit defeat, and indeed she has no intention of doing so, but Rachel has become increasingly stoic as the week has progressed. Indeed, her only display of emotions have come in the form of screaming matches, during many of which Shelby finds herself sinking to her daughter's level and screaming right back. She can't remember a time when she was _less_ in control of her emotions than she has been this past week; even during pregnancy she managed to remain largely composed. She chooses instead to stay out of Rachel's way as much as possible, convincing herself that if Rachel wants to come to her, she'll do so in her own time.

Apparently she's painfully transparent, for Will cocks an eyebrow. "That's why you're still here at seven o'clock?" he asks, voice irritatingly innocent.

Something inside Shelby snaps, as it has so many times in the past few days, and it's all she can do to keep her voice even. "I told you, she doesn't need me! She just wants to be on her own. Trust me, Will, I'm doing her a favour." She's not sure whether tears or anger are threatening, but she has no intention of allowing either to surface.

He takes another step forwards so that there is hardly any air between them. They are almost exactly the same height, helped by the impressive set of heels she put on this morning. A good pair of heels always makes her feel more in control. "And you don't think you're helping, just by being there?" he asks softly, reaching out to brush something from Shelby's cheek. It takes her a moment to realise that it's a tear.

"I... I don't know what I'm doing," she admits, voice cracking slightly as she realises defeat. Impossibly he moves even closer and she can feel his breath tickling her cheek. For a second neither of them move, and then slowly, eyes never leaving hers, Will leans forward and their lips meet. It is nothing like the passionate affair on his settee; it is gentle and careful and tender. The hand which brushed away her tear is now cupping her face and his other hand rests on the small of her back. Shelby allows her eyes to flutter shut, allows herself one moment of feeling nothing but the sweet taste of his lips, before she steps back and breaks the contact. "This is a bad idea." She attempts to sound authoritative, but the statement comes out as little more than a whisper.

Undeterred, Will recloses the gap. "Feels like a very, very good idea to me," he replies, voice husky.

Shelby shakes her head and takes another step back, and this time with the distance comes a sense of time and place. _The middle of a Vocal Adrenaline rehearsal, _for God's sake. "Of course it does," she responds, her voice a good deal stronger as she gets her wits about her. "You're a guy, you think with your trousers."

Evidently offended by this observation, he raises his eyebrows and widens his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, every bit as petulantly as she has heard Jesse whinge.

Shelby crosses her arms loosely back across her chest. Clarity and control has rapidly returned and she's already mortified by her behaviour. The last thing she needs is for one of her kids to walk in and see her lip-locked with the opposing team's coach. "It means I like you Will, but you're right. I need to focus on Rachel and this" - she gestures between the pair of them – "isn't fair on her."

Will's eyes have gradually softened as he, too, seems to have returned to his senses. "Rachel's not the only one who this is hard on, you know," he points out gently.

"What are you on about?" Shelby snaps in return, unwilling to let her barriers down again. Vocal Adrenaline will begin filling up the auditorium again any second now, and Will needs to get the hell out before she falls apart completely. "She's the one who's lost her parents."

"This is a massive adjustment for you," he insists in what's clearly supposed to be a placating tone. "It takes time. I get that."

"You don't get _anything_," she tells him shortly. "Like I said, Rachel and I are fine." Her voice leaves no room for argument and after surveying her for a second he lets out a defeated sigh.

"Okay, okay. You're fine." His tone says quite clearly that he believes anything but.

"We are," she insists stubbornly.

He surveys her critically a moment longer. "Well then, I'll let you get back to your rehearsal. If you need anything..."

"I'll call."

He seems to be considering saying more but in the end thinks better of it. "Take care of yourself, Shelby," he settles for, stepping forwards deftly and kissing her on the forehead before she has a chance to react. He slips away through the rows of chairs, leaving a stunned Shelby in his wake.

A few seconds later students begin reappearing on the stage, causing Shelby to wonder whether they really have just finished their break or have been waiting for her conversation to finish. Either way, she can't really bring herself to care. "Alright, that'll do for tonight," she shouts once they have all assembled. Looks of disbelief are exchanged. "Go home, get some sleep. I'm not here tomorrow but I expect this routine sorted by Thursday. If I hear you've been slacking I'll personally make sure you're step-ball changing in your sleep, you've spent so much time practising." The freshmen's eyes widen in fear while the older students barely stifle groans.

The feeling of control over her emotions grows stronger as she watches them break out into chatter and leave the stage. Vocal Adrenaline is nothing if not consistent and right now, consistency is just what she needs.

GLEE!

Despite her new resolve to get home, Shelby still manages to distract herself for a further half hour by busying herself with some long overdue paperwork, and then longer still by deciding her office simply _needs_ a tidy, and it can't possibly wait. It isn't until nearly nine o'clock after the janitor finally insists he locks up and that she needs to go home that she pulls into her driveway, a vegetable curry and chicken madras on her passenger seat. Her prediction has proved correct; she is already out of ideas for what to feed Rachel, and can't quite bring herself to ask her daughter what her dads used to cook for her. For tonight, at least, takeaway will have to do.

The door is unlocked allowing Shelby to nudge the handle down with her elbow and kick it open, arms laden with bags and books. "I'm home!" she shouts up the stairs once she's manoeuvred inside and shut the door, before proceeding through to the kitchen and dumping her load on the table. "Rachel?" she shots a little louder this time, pulling out two plates as well as knives and forks. Her stomach is rumbling at the smell of the Indian. "I've got dinner!"

She finishes setting the table and has moved her schoolbags through to the lounge before she finally goes upstairs in search of her daughter. "Rachel?" she says, pausing outside the guest room – _Rachel's _room, she reminds herself – and knocking. "Rach, are you in there?"

A muffled grunt sounding suspiciously like '_go away'_ sounds through the door, and Shelby decides to take this as an invitation to enter. The room is painted a neutral cream with simple oak furniture and Shelby makes a mental note that she will need to ask Rachel if she wants to decorate; the colours seem quite unbefitting of the cheerful, talented diva she saw perform _Don't Rain On My Parade_. Perhaps, though, it's a conversation best delayed for a couple of weeks, at least until things have settled down. "Dinner's out downst..." Shelby starts, but trails away as she takes in the scene before her.

Rachel is lay face down on the unmade bed – which has, until this point, been kept meticulously tidy – shoulders shaking with silent tears, and fisting one half of her new pyjama bottoms. The other half are hanging off the end of the bed, a tattered edge indicating where they've been torn apart. Uncomprehending, Shelby's eyes sweep the room and they fall upon several pieces of material strewn in various unlikely places, which can only be the remains of the matching pyjama top. "What _happened?_" she says, struggling to disguise the incredulity in her voice. Her eyes fall upon the scissors from her sewing kit and then flick back to Rachel.

"I told you to _go away_," comes the response from the bed and a second later Shelby is ducking as a trouser leg comes flying towards her face.

"_Rachel," _she chides, struggling to makes sense of the scene before her. She isn't angry – the pyjamas weren't especially expensive and the material missile was hardly going to hurt had it hit – just extremely confused. She makes her way cautiously to the bed, plucking the remains of the pyjama trousers from the mattress and dropping them to the floor; they've been pretty well butchered and are clearly a lost cause. She sits down and reaches out a cautious hand to Rachel, who has dropped her head back into the pillow. Her shoulders are no longer shaking but she seems to have no intention of communicating. She stiffens slightly as Shelby places a hand on her back, but other than that doesn't respond, so Shelby starts rubbing slow, comforting circles.

They sit like this for a couple of minutes, Shelby trying to piece together the pieces of the puzzle, but nothing seems to fit. Rachel has been wearing the pyjamas since last Friday and certainly hasn't expressed any particular dislike for them. Perhaps, Shelby considers, Rachel hasn't really paid any attention to what they look like until now, but even if this is the case the reaction seems a bit extreme. Shoving them to the back of a drawer would have been equally as effective. She is about to ask when Rachel stirs, pushing herself up slowly into a cross legged position. Her eyes are red and puffy as Shelby has seen them many a time over the past few days, although she hasn't actually seen her cry since Saturday. It seems to be one of the many things Rachel prefers to do alone.

"I'm sorry about the pyjamas," Rachel offers into the silence. She avoids looking at Shelby, instead fingering the hem of her vest top. "They were really nice."

More confused than ever, Shelby pulls her own legs up onto the bed and sits across from Rachel, mirroring her cross-legged pose. "That's okay," she says cautiously, feeling like she is balanced on the edge of a cliff, and one gust of wind could send her in either direction. "We can get you a new pair."

It is apparently the wrong direction, for inexplicably Rachel's eyes begin filling up with tears. Shelby instinctively reaches out a hand but Rachel pulls backwards and clambers off the other side of the bed, snatching up part of her pyjama top as she goes. "No we _can't_," she insists, knuckles whitening around the material.

Shelby, too, gets to her feet. "Rachel, sweetie, I don't understand. Do you want a different pair? You can come and choose, if you li-"

"You can't just replace them!" Rachel snaps, throwing her arms in the air in anger. "I _loved_ my old pair, and I know you mean well, and I appreciate the new ones, but they're not the same." Tears stream down her face and she rubs at them angrily with the scrunched up ball of material. "I want my old pair back. I tried to like these ones, I really did, but they make me so angry." She sniffs and then speaks so quietly Shelby struggles to catch the words. "You can't just replace them."

A dead weight settles in the pit of Shelby's stomach as she realises what the conversation is really about, and suddenly the bed between them may as well be a gaping chasm between two cliff edges. She searches desperately for words to articulate some form of comfort or reassurance, but none come. "Rachel..." she trails away, no idea how to finish the sentence. Instead she moves around to the end of the bed, intent on approaching her daughter, but Rachel backs away into the wall, the material sliding from her grasp.

"Please," she sniffs, the anger apparently deflated. "Please, I don't want to talk about it. Just leave me alone."

Shelby hesitates, feeling herself torn in two opposite directions. Being a mother, it was supposed to be so natural, but instead she finds herself stumbling through the dark, desperate for some sort of guidance. Rachel is pushing against her, and everything Shelby has ever known has taught her to push back; the gap is widening and she finds herself struggling fruitlessly for purchase. She longs to be back in the Carmel auditorium, doing something she knows and is good at. This - this being a mother - she can't do, so she ignores the half of her screaming to comfort Rachel and backs away, hating herself with every step. "Dinner's downstairs," she says quietly. "Just... whenever you're hungry, come and get something to eat." Rachel nods without looking up and Shelby quickly leaves, intent on devising some new horribly complex choreography for Vocal Adrenaline.

Three hours later before she stumbles into bed and falls into a restless sleep, Shelby throws away two unopened cartons of cold takeaway.


	7. of Beer and Bargaining, part I

I was so convinced I was going to hate writing Finn - he totally irritates me on the show - but I've had so much fun with this part! It just kept coming; it's the longest part yet. Just as a bit of warning I'm now going away until Monday so this probably won't be updated until late next week. In the meantime I have a question: are there any songs you'd like included in this fic? I have three in mind which I will be using, but I'm very conscious that this _is_ Glee, and there's been no singing so far (unless you count Will's _Ice, Ice Baby_ in the corridor). In fairness it's not like there's exactly been cause for celebration, but even so. Specifically I'm after a song that Shelby could sing to Rachel, but if anyone has anything they'd like to see included (with or without context) then please review/PM and I'll consider it.

My eternal thanks, as always, go to the wonderful, wonderful reviewers: _Gigi18 _(I'm glad you think Rachel's emotions are coming through even from Shelby's POV, I've been working hard to get that right), _MarlisaKristine, KateGreysFan, MarlisaKristine _(twice! I'm glad you like the Shelby line; I was quite proud of that one), _Jisbon-Fan_ (absolutely Shell! I can only deal with Wemma when it's very, very well written, whereas Shell just happens with no effort. As for last Shelby part, it is, but there may be a small section in her POV in the epilogue since I do love writing her), _Glee Lover _(you're very welcome - I'm so glad you're enjoying this fic and decided to review, it's lovely to hear from you!), _Pagan-Angel13, AliceCullenForever101 _and _reillyt4_. And here it is, the start of chapter 3:

**Glee Club: of Beer and Bargaining, part I**

No matter how often he tries, or how many times he pulls it roughly from his neck to start again, Finn Hudson simply cannot put on a tie. He figures it's just one of those father-son bonding things that he's missed out on and so is destined never to have quite right; the last time he saw his dad he probably wasn't even tying his own shoelaces, let alone wearing suits. On the whole his mom does a pretty kick ass job at being both parents, but unfortunately this is one area where her own skills are as haphazard as his own. Don't get him wrong, his mom's awesome – she totally didn't kick off over the whole getting-the-captain-of-the-cheerios-pregnant thing and she makes a mean pasta bake – but there's only so much of the man stuff she can do.

Growling in frustration he yanks off the latest attempt and starts again, but the damn mirror is just confusing matters. He tries to send his hand in one direction but it's like his brain won't compute or something, and he just ends up with his arms in knots. It's not often he has to get dressed up, and usually he'd just get Quinn or someone to do it (like Kurt – where the hell is he when you need him? Finn's pretty sure he's known how to knot a tie since he was in diapers) but he's running late as it is and somehow thinks arriving half dressed to the synagogue is like, totally not good social etiquette. It's the sort of thing Quinn or Rachel would normally lecture him about later.

Just as he's about to give up on it entirely and go open-neck the sound of someone descending the stairs behind him causes him to glance over his shoulder. "Hey Burt," he greets, turning back to the full-length mirror - not that he'd ever admit it to anyone, but having a proper mirror in his room is totally one of the perks of living with a gay guy - and giving his tie one last futile tug. "Are you guys all waiting? I'm almost ready." Burt is driving them to the funeral; apparently Kurt went to talk to the Berrys once when he was confused about his sexuality (Finn could've cleared that issue up pretty quickly for him, but whatever) and Burt has this whole feeling indebted thing going on.

Finn glances up and smiles at Burt in the mirror as the older man steps behind him, looking quite strange out of his usual checked shirt and baseball cap combo. It had taken a bit of time for them to build a relationship after the whole faggy furniture disaster, but Kurt had told his dad about Finn's shower-curtain heroics and things seemed to get easier after that. Finn's still not totally down with the furnishing – it's all a bit too woodland-lodge-meets-Arabia for him – but he appreciates the effort on Kurt's part, and feels he owes it to his mum to keep quiet. Plus they had a bit of money left over and Kurt totally let Finn buy a new x-box game, so he doesn't really care what the place looks like. "Want a hand with that?" Burt asks, breaking Finn from his thoughts.

It takes a second for Finn to realise what he's talking about, but then his eyes follow Burt's back to the tie, which is currently knotted messily about halfway down his chest. Finn's fairly sure it's back-to-front as well, but it's hard to tell from this angle. "Please," he replies gratefully, turning to face Burt and tugging it undone.

Burt takes the tie and, with some effort due to his height disadvantage, loops it around Finn's neck. "Watch carefully," he instructs, pulling the wide end of the tie down lower than the thin one. "So you bring this over here, then loop this round..." he continues talking, Finn watching carefully as, as if by magic, a perfect Windsor knot appears. "See, it's not so hard," Burt finishes, taking a step back to inspect his handiwork.

"Thanks," Finn grins in relief, already moving towards the bed. "I'll just grab my jacket, then – hey! What're you doing?"

Burt has stepped forwards and is tugging the tie loose. He doesn't respond to Finn's question, merely continuing to loosen the knot. After a couple of seconds he pulls it from Finn's neck and hands him the length of material. "Come on then," he says, smiling slightly. "We've got a couple of minutes before we have to go, let's see you do it."

Finn looks incredulously between the tie and Burt. "I just spent like, ten minutes trying to do that," he points out. "I'm pretty sure I missed out on the tie gene."

Laughing now, Burt shakes his head. "Don't be stupid, kid," he says, grabbing Finn by the shoulders and spinning him around so he's once again facing the mirror. "Put it round your neck then... That's it."

"This really isn't going to work," Finn warns, but he follows Burt's step-by-step coaching anyway. It takes two clumsy goes and one near-strangulation, but eventually on the third attempt a semi-presentable knot is formed at his neck and Finn simply stares at his reflection, wide-eyed. He can't quite believe he's done it. He turns to the older man, beaming. "Thanks, man!" he exclaims eagerly. "Never thought I'd be able to do that."

Burt returns the grin and claps Finn warmly on the shoulder. "Come on then kid, I lied before; we need to get a move on. I still need to drag Kurt away from the bathroom mirror, he's been practising his mourning face for the past half hour." Finn laughs and, after grabbing his suit jacket from the bed, follows Burt up the stairs. Just as they leave the house he can't help but steal one last glance in the hall mirror, and a lopsided grin forms once again.

GLEE!

The whole Glee club turns out to the funeral. Finn's pretty sure Santana's only there because she gets to miss a day of school, and Brittany's there because Santana is, but hey, they've made the effort to turn up and that's what matters. He spots Puck outside the synagogue, scowling next to his mother as she talks animatedly to a large group of women, occasionally gesturing towards her son or patting him maternally on the cheek. Quinn and Mercedes turn up together a few minutes after Finn, closely followed by Matt, Tina and Mike (Finn's totally jealous of Mike these days; he's one of those guys who can just get away with dating a weird goth chick and being an awesome dancer without anyone accusing him of homo-explosions). Artie arrives last with his dad, scowling as soon as he catches sight of Mike and Tina, and Finn feels a slight twinge of sympathy for the guy – he knows _that_ feeling – but Kurt, Quinn and Mercedes soon approach and engage him in conversation.

Finn stands slightly apart from the group, scanning the crowd. When people begin drifting inside he lags behind trying to catch sight of Rachel, but eventually he guesses she must be busy somewhere doing some family thing, or whatever. He slouches inside, never having been comfortable with any religious building, and takes a seat beside Quinn who looks equally out of place. She flashes him a greeting smile but otherwise says nothing and soon he's fidgeting nervously in his seat, glancing around in an attempt to occupy himself. The synagogue's pretty full; apparently the Berrys were popular people within their own community. A row of middle-aged women behind him are murmuring in a busy-body kind of way, discussing the news that came through this morning: two men in their early twenties with a history of petty crime have been arrested on suspicion of arson and man-slaughter. Finn listens for a while, but they're throwing around words like 'atrocity' and 'tragedy' like it's this great exciting scandal, and pretty soon he tunes them out, figuring that turning around and hitting them might be frowned upon.

The quiet talking dies down all of a sudden and Finn twists in his seat to see Rachel walking in quickly, head bowed. Ms. Corcoran is just behind her, hand hovering at the small of her back as she guides Rachel to the front of the synagogue and into a pew. For her part, Rachel looks pretty composed; she lifts her head and flashes Finn and Quinn a half-hearted smile as she passes. Finn feels his stomach to a kind of back flip and he shifts uncomfortably. His brain's still totally programmed to not look at any other girl when he's sat next to Quinn.

The service is a suitably solemn affair with lots of talk about the Berrys being 'role models for our community' and 'hardworking, dedicated and talented individuals'. Finn tries to pay attention to the words, but really he's just here for Rachel, and pretty soon he finds his mind wandering. Occasionally a nudge in the ribs from Quinn prompts him to stand or sit and he refocuses on the funeral for a few minutes before some new distraction occurs to him. He does try, but funerals are way depressing, and even though he doesn't really remember his dad he finds himself getting kind of teary, which is totally uncool. Running through the lyrics for their latest Glee number keeps his mind off things he'd rather not think about.

Following the funeral is the burial and still Rachel says nothing, watching with her face impassive as the plain caskets are lowered into the ground. Before they fill in the graves she reads a poem, something about not weeping and wind and birds and flowers and that kind of shit. It's a nice poem, and she reads it impeccably, but he'd sort of been expecting her to burst into song or something. This un-Rachel like person in front of him is so passé it kind of scares him. He notices Ms. Corcoran shooting her worried glances, and guesses he isn't the only one.

Before long the crowd starts to disperse, many of them approaching Rachel and offering their condolences before they leave. She smiles and nods, addressing each one politely, thanking them for coming and wishing them well. Soon there are only a few people left: about half of the Glee club, Rachel, Ms. Corcoran, Mr. Schue (who's been hovering about five feet away from Ms. Corcoran for the entire burial like a homeless puppy) and a few people Finn doesn't recognise. He wants to talk to Rachel but he doesn't really know what to say to her. Normally he'd tell her about his awesome kill streak last night or something, but somehow it doesn't seem appropriate.

Puck however usually appreciates that kind of thing, so when the shout reaches his ears five minutes later he and Puck are engaged in an intense discussion on Call of Duty battle strategies. They turn as one towards the source of the commotion to see Rachel, fists balled and face red, standing about three feet away from a distraught looking Ms. Corcoran. Mr. Schue is, usefully, hanging a few paces behind, looking utterly bewildered.

"Rachel," Ms. Corcoran is imploring, clearly trying to keep her voice low following Rachel's outburst. "I didn't mean that. I just mean you don't need this... this..." she gestures towards Rachel, apparently searching for the right words. "This poker face," she settles on finally, dropping her hand to her side in something nearing exasperation. "You don't have to be okay about all this... nobody expects you to be. It's okay to need help."

Rachel, who seems to be past all reason, is further incensed by these words. Finn can practically _see_ the steam gushing from her ears. "Is this what you wanted?" she demands furiously, and Finn feels Puck wince beside him. Finn's own ears are ringing at the shrill tone. "For me to need you? Well guess what? You're too fucking late! You had your chance – what makes you think I want your help now? What gives you that right?"

Ms. Corcoran seems close to tears and it's a stark contrast to the composed, confident woman that headed up Vocal Adrenaline at Regionals. They both seem unaware of the fact every pair of eyes in the vicinity are homed in on their argument. "Please Rachel," she says, a definite pleading edge to her voice now. "I know it's not ideal and I know I don't have any right. I _know_ that. But I'm trying my best here."

"I don't care!" Rachel exclaims, slamming her foot to the ground dramatically as tears spill from her eyes. Finn can already sense the storm out coming. "I _hate _you. I hate you for being here when they aren't and I just miss them so much and it's not supposed to be like this." Her shoulders are shaking rapidly and she starts choking on her words as sobs overtake her. Ms. Corcoran simply stares, horror struck, as without warning Rachel turns on her heel and flees, stumbling half blindly through the cemetery.

Silence rings out and time seems to stand still as every head watches Rachel's disappearing form. Finn has no idea how to react. His stomach is twisting painfully in sympathy for both Rachel and Ms. Corcoran, who is rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on the point where her daughter has just vanished. Suddenly she's stumbling, and the never-ending second is over. Mr. Schue quickly steps forwards and grabs her before she loses her balance completely and then he's guiding her towards the car park, murmuring something into her ear as nervous chatter breaks out among the remaining spectators.

Finn turns to Puck, who stares back wide eyed. "That was _intense_," Puck proclaims, for all the world as though he's just been watching a soap opera. "I mean, I know she's a drama queen and all, but talk about choosing your moment."

"Hey, Puck, cover for me will you?" Finn asks, ignoring his friend's statement. "I'm gonna go check on Rachel." He hasn't quite figured out what he's going to say to her when he finds her, but he figures someone ought to go, and the place hardly seems to be bursting with willing volunteers. Probably most people are worried about potential decapitation if they get too close.

A familiar expression crosses Puck's face and Finn suppresses a groan. "No fucking way, man! If anyone's going after Berry when she's all hot and vulnerable it's totally me," he insists, eyes already tracking the point where Rachel vanished from view.

"Dude, _listen to yourself,_" Finn starts, but falls short as a hand comes out of nowhere and whacks Puck on the back of the head. Hard.

"Ow!" he exclaims, turning to face the offender with an expression of outrage. "What the fuck was that for?"

"For being a complete shit head," Santana snarls with her arm still raised menacingly, and as Puck opens his mouth to respond she winks at Finn and gestures for him to follow Rachel. For a second he gapes as his feet struggle to catch up with his brain, but then he grins gratefully and backs away, hearing something which sounds suspiciously like "crazy ass bitch," as he retreats. Santana may well be a crazy ass bitch, he considers, but she can be a damn cool one when she tries.

It takes Finn a little under ten minutes to find Rachel. She hasn't gone far, although it takes a bit of backtracking on his part to finally locate her. She's sat beneath a large oak tree just outside the far end of the cemetery, knees pulled to her chest and head buried in her hands. He approaches cautiously, unsure whether or not she's going to hurl something at him, but when she doesn't respond to his presence he settles down next to her. A moment later he feels her slight weight settling against him as she leans her head on his shoulder.

For a long time neither of them speak. Rachel's breathing is shallow but she isn't crying anymore for which Finn is extremely gratefully; crying girls make him totally uncomfortable. That one time Quinn started balling in the corridor he nearly had a heart attack, but at the time he figured it was pretty much his fault, so he had to suck it up. This time he certainly isn't to blame, although he feels the same kind of protective instinct towards Rachel as he does towards Quinn, so he sits quietly and lets her lean on him until her breathing calms and the occasional sniffs subside.

Following the emotional rollercoaster that was Regionals, Rachel had entered – in her words – a period of mourning for their outrageously unfair defeat. He'd been pretty down about the whole thing himself, but Rachel had been, if possible, even more over-dramatic than usual, dressing in black and threatening murder to anyone who so much as mentioned the words 'vocal', 'adrenaline', 'Carmel', 'Jesse' or 'Corcoran'. When things had eventually started to get back to normal with New Directions, the pair of them had been suspended in a kind of limbo. For his part, Finn was totally over the whole reputation thing, but by the time he'd plucked up the courage to do anything about it summer had been upon them, and with it Rachel's trip to New York. The first time he'd seen her in two months had been the first day back to school and before he could even contemplate asking her where they stood there was _this_, and now he's pretty sure his chances are basically screwed for the foreseeable future.

"Do you think she hates me?" Rachel asks, after what must have been at least twenty minutes of silence. She sits up and turns her body so she's facing Finn, and only now does he notice the mascara smeared down her face and the muddy marks on her knees and her black dress (which, incidentally, is like the longest thing he's ever seen her dressed in, and she still looks smokin'. He's always had this fantasy of seeing her in a Cheerio's uniform, her legs all – _mind back to the present, Hudson_). She has the sleeves of her cardigan pulled down over her hands and is shivering slightly despite the reasonably warm fall weather.

Finn shakes his head earnestly. "Nobody could ever hate you, Rach," he assures her. She lets out a derisive snort. "I'm serious!" he insists. "You can be irritating as hell and everything, but nobody who really knows you could hate you. Dislike you, sure, but not hate. Even Santana doesn't _hate _you, she just finds you really annoying..." He trails away, unsure when his little pep-talk turned from comforting to semi-insulting, but Rachel doesn't seem to notice.

"That's just it though," she says, playing with the ragged ends of her sleeves. "She doesn't know me, not really. Before this last week we've hardly ever spent any time together and then, well..." She lets out a hollow laugh and glances up at Finn from beneath her lashes. "I haven't exactly been myself this week."

Plucking a stray dandelion from the grass, Finn begins twirling in through his fingers, watching as the flower becomes an indistinct yellow blur. He's no good at all this touchy-feely stuff and part of him is screaming to get up and run, but a bigger part of him hates seeing Rachel hurting, so he stays. He kind of wishes Quinn or someone would appear; since the whole pregnancy thing she just seems to _know_ all this really profound stuff that she can spout at a moment's notice.

Rachel lets out a soft sigh, seeming to accept Finn's lack of reply and instead carrying on the conversation herself. At least some things never change. "She just makes me so _angry_," she admits, shifting her weight so she's once again leaning against the tree. Their shoulders brush together but Finn makes no move to get any closer. "And I know she means well, I really do. She didn't have to take me in, or anything, but I just can't be grateful. I start thinking about how she never really wanted me, and my dads did, and she's only interested now they're gone..." she trails away, apparently lost in her own thoughts, then sighs again. "It sounds really selfish, doesn't it?"

Finn starts plucking the flowers from the dandelion, eyes fixed on his hands even though he can feel her eyes boring into the side of his head. "I've seen you be selfish before," he assures her, thinking of the many times she's insisted she takes lead vocals. "But this isn't selfish, Rach. You're just confused... And that's okay, I get that."

"Do you?" she asks forlornly, leaning her head back against the trunk and closing her eyes. "Because I don't get it at all. I try. I try really, really hard, but I just can't help it." She lifts up her head and opens her eyes. "It's sort of like when I'm sitting in rehearsal and someone sings a bad note and I _know_ I shouldn't say anything but I just can't help it. I don't mean to hurt people but then the words just come out and then I can't take them back."

Finn shifts uncomfortably, thinking about shouting 'faggy' over and over again at Kurt. As soon as the word had formed on his lips he knew he shouldn't say it, but he was mad, and everything had this kind of red hue to it, and the words had just kept coming. He knows how Rachel feels, and he knows it sucks and that she can't really help it, but he also knows it's no excuse. He chucks away the beheaded dandelion. "Remember when my mom and Burt first started dating?" he asks, focussing his attention instead on his shoes.

"Kurt's dad?" she asks, and Finn nods. "Yeah, I think it was about the time I had laryngitis."

"Just a bit before then," Finn agrees, choosing not to dwell on the memories of his _Jesse's Girl_ performance which any mention of laryngitis inevitably invokes. "Well I couldn't stand him. I tried to break them up and everything, I told my mom that I wasn't ready for her to date and that she wasn't being fair, and all this other awful stuff. I was sure she was trying to replace my dad."

"And she wasn't?"

"No, but I just couldn't see it at the time. I was totally pissed off. I went to see Miss Pillsbury and everything and she gave me this big spiel about how it was okay if my mom wanted to date as long as she didn't have random singing men round every other night for sleepovers."

"Did that help?"

"No," he admits, thinking of the manic look that had been in Miss Pillsbury's eyes and losing track of his trail of thought. He's sure there's a point there somewhere. An image of Burt standing behind him patiently explaining how to tie a tie floats to the forefront of his mind and his story's back on track. "It just took time, I guess. But in the end I figured out it wasn't Burt I hated; I just hated the idea of forgetting about my dad. Well, I don't really remember him, but..." he trails away, mind drifting again. His elementary school teacher once told him he had the attention span of a gnat, and though Finn doesn't really know how long a gnat's attention span is, he guesses it's pretty short.

"But?" Rachel prompts gently, and he smiles when he sees he has her attention.

"But in the end I figured out Burt wasn't trying to replace anyone, and just because Burt's around doesn't mean I love my dad any less. He's just... He's just this great guy, Rach. He's not my dad, and he never will be, but he makes my mom happy and I like having him around. It'll never be perfect, but he makes everything that little bit easier, you know?"

Rachel lets out a breath. "I guess," she says sounding unconvinced, but Finn's pretty proud of his little speech anyway. She fidgets with her sleeves some more, and even though Finn's fairly sure the cardigan must be new it's already all stretched out of shape. "I feel bad, too," she admits. "I spent so much time desperate for a mom and now... Now I'd do anything to get them back. Even if it meant giving up her."

They lapse into silence again, and Finn starts tugging at the grass. He figures a good half hour must have passed since Rachel disappeared and people are going to start looking soon. Despite the fall sun Rachel's shivering more than ever, and without thinking Finn shrugs off his jacket and drapes it around her shoulders. She glances up at him and smiles. "We should get going," he says reluctantly before she has a chance to look away. A small (or not so small) selfish part of him would be perfectly content to sit here all day, but he suspects Rachel would rather go back on her own terms than have people come searching for them and drag her away.

"Yeah," Rachel sighs, and after a brief pause she clambers to her feet, slipping her arms into the jacket then brushing herself down. Finn follows suit.

They stand facing one another beneath the oak tree, the only sounds those of children playing and shrieking in a nearby park. Rachel looks even smaller than usual, huddled in his too-large jacket with her make-up still smudged down her face. She looks more like a scared child than he's ever seen her. "Rach..." he starts cautiously, eventually giving voice to the idea which has been building in the back of his mind. "If you wanted to come and stay with me for a couple of days – I mean, not _with me_ with me," he hastens to add. "Just like, at our house, just to give you and your mom a bit of space, you could."

Without responding she steps forward and slips her small hand into his larger one, then starts walking back towards the graveyard car park. He wonders if that was the wrong thing to say. Some things sound okay in his head but then when they come out they're all messed up. Maybe this is one of those times. They're about halfway back and she still hasn't said anything and the silence is killing him. He's about to apologise (always a failsafe technique with girls) when she stops suddenly and turns to him, a small frown creasing her brow. "Just for a day or two, just so I can stop... stop feeling so angry all the time?" she asks, staring up intently into his face.

"Yeah," he agrees.

She steps forwards and throws her arms around his middle, squeezing tightly. The "thank you," comes out muffled against his chest, but he hears it nevertheless and squeezes back in acknowledgement.

After a few seconds she pulls away and they recommence their uphill walk, Finn with a little more of a spring in his step. He can just make out a couple of people over the crown of the hill. It doesn't take long for Rachel, too, to spot them, and when she does she clutches onto his hand all the more tightly, as though it is her lifeline.

GLEE!

"Nearly... OUCH, that must hurt... One more... FINN DUCK... you idiot, you just got me killed!"

It is later that evening and Finn is lying spread-eagled across the floor while Rachel is perched on the edge of his bed, each of them clutching an x-box controller. Rachel's eyes are riveted to the screen whereas his are trained on her face, a small smile tugging on the corners of his lips as he watches her expression shift from outrage to intense concentration to horror. He wouldn't have her pegged as an x-box player, but as she primly told him upon her arrival, she needs a distraction and she's heard enough about the game from him and Puck to be fairly confident in her abilities. Indeed, she picks it up quickly and seems to take great delight in the array of weapons at her disposal.

They've been playing for about two hours now, ever since they got home and explained the situation to Carol, who was surprisingly chilled about the whole thing. Not that she's tightly wound or anything. Finn's pretty sure his mom's used to taking in random girls by now anyway, so whatever.

The conversation when they'd finally found their way back through the graveyard to the car park had been beyond awkward, with Ms. Corcoran and Rachel both determinedly avoiding the other's gaze. When Rachel had suggested she stay with Finn for a couple of days, her mom had started twitching in a way which totally made it look like she was contemplating just chucking Rachel in the car and being done with it, but then Mr. Schue had placed a comforting hand on her arm and murmured that the Hudsons were a good family, and it might be good for she and Rachel to get a bit of space for a little while. She'd kind of deflated then and Finn could've sworn he saw Rachel looking away guiltily, but he's not really sure. The whole thing's pretty messed if you ask him, which fortunately nobody has, so he's doing his best to stay out of actually voicing an opinion.

Still, they're here now after a quick trip back to Ms. Corcoran's for Rachel to grab a few things (Ms. Corcoran had muttered something about having to get back to Carmel for a Vocal Adrenaline rehearsal and Mr. Schue, who's apparently permanently attached to her side, went with her. Finn thinks he must have a death wish or something; if Rachel's temper's genetic he wouldn't want to be around Ms. Corcoran when the inevitable explosion occurs) and as far as Finn can tell Rachel is deeply engrossed in the game. It's not until she chucks her controller away with a dramatic sigh and flops backwards onto the bed that he realises she hasn't restarted the game like she has done the past fifty million times. "Ugh, I'm just so distracted," she moans from beneath her hand, which she has flung over her face. The dramatics, which have been missing all week in favour of absolutely no expression, seem to be returning. "I can't concentrate and my kill streak's suffering."

Never having expected to hear the words 'kill streak' uttered in the same sentence by Rachel Berry, Finn sits up, his own controller falling from his chest where it has been resting for the past two minutes. Rachel died first obviously, but he's chivalrous and all that so he offered to switch in order to allow her to continue playing. "Wanna do something else?" he offers. They _have _been playing for two hours, and even though that's like, a warm up for him, she _is_ a girl.

"You know how I said I'd give up anything?" she asks, apparently oblivious to his question. "I tried. I asked God and Allah and Buddha and _everyone_ and I offered everything. I offered my _voice_. I said I'd go back to having no friends, and then I feel bad because there's you and Mom and all the things I'd offered to give up, and you're all there and you're all being so nice." She stops to take a breath and Finn tries to wrap his head around this latest monster sentence, marvelling at the leaps her mind can make. At least she hasn't used any of those crazy long words she usually favours. "And I'd still give it all up, just for another couple of days."

He glances over, half wondering if she's crying, but instead she's scowling up at the ceiling apparently very dissatisfied by something. Probably Allah, or whatever god she's working with at the moment. "Wanna go see a movie?" he suggests, because he's totally used up his quota of philosophical conversation today, and seriously? He doesn't even really know what she's just said. Sitting in the dark for two and a half hours seems like a totally effective way of ensuring he doesn't have to answer any more awkward questions.

She sits up and narrows her eyes at him, a series of unintelligible emotions flicking across her features before settling on resigned. "Sure," she breathes, getting lightly to her feet and offering him her hand. "Are there any horrors on at the moment? I could use some mindless gore."

Finn accepts the hand up without really listening as she launches into a monologue on poor direction in horror movies; his brain's finished processing her earlier statement and the beginnings of a plan are forming in his mind. What he really needs is to speak to Kurt.


	8. of Beer and Bargaining, part II

Having really enjoyed writing Finn I was hoping to be pleasantly surprised for a second time, but unfortunately not: I am decidedly _not_ a fan of writing Kurt! It really hasn't turned out how I'd hoped, but I'm sick to death of fiddling with it and I imagine you guys are sick of waiting. Sorry about that, it's been a busy week - I've turned 18, gone back to school and been away for about five days. Unfortunately the updates are likely to slow from this stage since I _am_ back at school, but I'm still aiming for one a week. Everything's quite tightly plotted so it's just a case of actually sitting down and writing it out. On that note, if anyone's interested in betaing this story, please PM me.

I've just worked out you can reply to reviews (genius, I know) so I'll be doing that from now on so as not to clutter up my A/N. That said, I'll dedicate this one to my anonymous reviewers, _RosarioN_ and _Jacky Setta_. I love hearing your kind words, it always makes my day!

**Glee Club: of Beer and Bargaining, part II**

Kurt Hummel is many things. He is undisputed fashion queen of McKinley High, is quite capable of hitting a high F thank-you-very-much Mr. Schue, and is the proud developer of easily the most comprehensive skin care routine in Ohio. One thing he is not, however, is a morning person.

It's not so much that he hates mornings – on the contrary, once he's showered and dressed he feels at his most refreshed in the early hours, long before a jock has had the opportunity to give him a slushie facial – just that it takes a disproportionally long time for his brain to actually switch on (Burt has, on many an occasion, suggested he tries a mug of coffee to kick-start his day, but Kurt shudders at the mere _thought_ of what daily caffeine could do to his complexion). He spends the beginning of each day on autopilot, staggering blindly out of bed and into the shower. It's not until he's been standing under the scalding water for at least fifteen minutes that he starts to wake up properly.

The morning after the funeral Kurt wakes up on cue at half six to his iPod blaring _Defying Gravity_, and with a groan he rolls over and quiets it. Bleary eyed, he struggles to his feet and grabs his dressing gown, hardly bothering to question the fact that Finn's bed is not only empty – a miracle in itself at this hour - it is in fact _made_, something that only occurs when Carol changes the sheets once a fortnight or when Kurt gets so sick of living in a pigsty that he gives in and does it himself. He's so switched-off that he doesn't even register the sound of the shower running (Finn never showers in the morning and is always up after Kurt, so Kurt usually has the bathroom to himself for at least half an hour and besides, Finn knows better than to disrupt Kurt's morning routine) and it's not until he's already opened the door and stepped into the steamy room that all the pieces suddenly fall into place and suddenly he's rooted to the spot in horror, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene before him.

"KURT!" Rachel shrieks, a good two octaves higher than even he can achieve. He winces and bolts from the room, but not before he's received a full-frontal view of a very wet and very naked Rachel Berry.

He thinks he might need therapy.

"Kurt!" Rachel storms from the bathroom barely ten seconds later, wrapping a towel tightly around her body. It's only now that he notices her eyes are red and puffy; the water pouring down her face was evidentially hiding tears. Still, she certainly doesn't look like crying any longer, and Kurt gulps and backs away as she approaches him menacingly. Never in his life had he imagined he'd be scared of Rachel Berry, but apparently seeing a girl naked induces panic in him, and _Gucci_ does she look furious. "What the hell?" she hisses, inches away from his face.

Kurt glances from side to side, trying to spy an escape route, but the carefully cluttered furnishing he'd been so proud of also makes a quick flight near enough impossible. "Look," he reasons, gingerly pushing her stomach in an attempt to make her back away. She obliges by a couple of feet, though continues to scowl menacingly. "It's hardly my idea of a perfect way to start a morning either. Gay, remember?"

"You shouldn't have just barged in as if you own the place then, should you?"

Given the slightly terrifying expression on her face, he chooses not to mention the fact that actually, it _is_ his room. "I'm sorry," he placates, hands held up in surrender. "It's not like I _wanted_ to see it or anything." He gives an involuntary shudder. "I mean, _ew._"

Her eyes narrow further and he wonders what he could have possibly said or done now that could invoke further anger. "I will have you know, Kurt Hummel," she snaps haughtily, "That I have a stringent exercise routine and diet that mean my physical form is practically perfect and-"

Eyes widening in horror as he realises what she's saying, Kurt waves his hands to cut her off. "I'm not questioning your... your..." He gestures towards her desperately. He would trade his entire Marc Jacobs collection to have his memory disinfected of the image currently burned across the back of his eyelids. "Your _physical form_. Merely stating that it's not my... My _preference._ That's why we're sharing a room remember, and Finn's upstairs? So nobody accidently gets pregnant. Again._"_ He really does try to keep the resentment out of his voice – it's not like this whole situation is her fault - but seriously? Walking in on Finn in the shower would have been _far_ less traumatic.

She glares at him a moment longer then throws up her hands in exasperation. Her towel begins to slip and Kurt screws his eyes closed but a second later he hears her stomping back towards the bathroom. "You should count yourself lucky, Kurt Hummel," she gripes, before slamming the door closed behind her. Kurt is not sure whether he's meant to be thanking his lucky stars for still having all of his anatomy attached or for having seen Rachel's _practically perfect physical form_, but personally he chooses the former.

GLEE!

Mercedes is the first member of the Glee club Kurt finds; he spots her almost as soon as he, Finn and Rachel leave Finn's battered car in the parking lot and start heading towards the school building. Rachel and Finn are hanging back, Finn with his arm draped protectively around her shoulder and shooting death glares at anyone who so much as _looks_ at her funny, while she gazes up at him like he's some kind of hero. Not that he's jealous or anything, but the whole scene's making Kurt feel slightly nauseous and looking at Rachel is still causing flashbacks, so when his eyes fall upon the familiar form of his best friend he tosses a cursory goodbye over his shoulder and quickens his pace until he falls into step besides Mercedes. "Morning Gorgeous," he greets, catching up with her just outside the entrance.

"Morning yourself!" she grins, embracing him briefly and then holding him at arm's length to survey his outfit appreciatively, as per their usual morning ritual. After a moment she nods her approval. "Looking good," she pronounces, linking his arm into hers and giving him a tug to signify they should start walking again.

"Why thank you," he replies with an oh-so-casual hair toss as the pair fall easily into step along the crowded hallway. "You're not looking too shabby yourself."

She bumps her hip to his and sticks her tongue out. "I look hot, and you know it," she tells him confidently. Laughing, he nods his agreement. He feels, as he always does with Mercedes, a bubble of happiness, knowledge that together they could _rule_ this place if they wanted to. As they go to round the corner Mercedes glances back over her shoulder and Kurt follows her gaze to where Finn and Rachel are just visible through the main doors. He lets out an audible sigh, which Mercedes naturally picks up on. "So what's the deal with those two anyway?" she asks, her voice the perfect mixture of sympathy to his plight and disdain at Finn and Rachel. "Are they going to finally put us all out of our misery and cut to the chase?"

Kurt snorts and rolls his eyes dramatically. "Finn's still insisting they're just friends. Though his eyes practically popped out of his head when he found out I walked in on Rachel in the shower this morning."

Mercedes' eyes widen and she turns to survey Kurt. "Ouch," she commiserates. "That's got to leave scars."

"Oh, it does," he assures her, shuddering and trying to repress the memory. "Weird thing was though, I think she was crying. I didn't notice at the time – it wasn't the most immediate of my concerns - but afterwards when she came out to castrate me her eyes were really red."

A frown creasing her brow, Mercedes chews on her lower lip thoughtfully. "I wish we could do something," she admits as they pause outside Kurt's locker to allow him to drop off some books. "I know she's annoying as hell, but she must know we're all there for her, right?" She doesn't voice what Kurt knows she is thinking – he's thinking it himself – that _no_, she probably doesn't know. It's not like they've ever gone out of their way to extend the hand of friendship to Rachel in the past; quite the contrary, in fact. But just because they're bitches to her, it doesn't mean they like to see her hurting.

Kurt glances around to check that Rachel is nowhere in the vicinity. She isn't – probably still too busy not being Finn's girlfriend – so he closes his locker and leans against it, gesturing for Mercedes to come closer. Her eyes light up as they always do at the prospect of a good gossip, and she leans in. "Well actually," he tells her, his own eyes sparkling with the plan. "That's just what I wanted to talk to you about.

She listens intently, her face shifting between concern and eagerness. Her only complaint comes when she hears his song suggestion – "_Does it have to be something so _white?" she moans – but he merely laughs and tells her that yes, it does.

GLEE!

With a deeply suffering sigh, Santana slams shut her locker and glares at him, as though he's just asked her to spend her entire summer building toilets in the blistering heat without food or water, or something. "Let me get this straight," she speaks slowly, towering over him so he practically quivers under her unrelenting gaze. "You want me to give up my entire lunchtime so we can practise some motivational song and then all have a heart-to-heart at Glee tonight so Berry knows we're all around to be her shoulder to wail on?" Coming from her, it sounds so unreasonable.

"...Yes?"

"I think it sounds fun," Brittany pipes up from Santana's side, and Kurt relaxes at the blonde's input. He's been waiting for his chance to catch the two of them together, because he knows what Brittany wants, Brittany gets. And God knows, she is just _nicer_ then Santana. "Besides, we sung that song for Quinn when she was sad and Rachel's sad now and she's our friend too" - both Kurt and Brittany ignore Santana's coughing fit - "so we should do one for her."

Santana seems to consider the request for a moment longer then gives another dramatic sigh. "Fine," she acquiesces, rolling her eyes as though it's some major sacrifice. "I better get a solo out of this, though."

Kurt assures her she will, before quickly retreating so as not to give away his poorly disguised grin. She might be a bitch, but actress she isn't; Kurt's no fool and knows that even without Brittany, he wouldn't have had much difficulty persuading Santana to participate.

GLEE!

To his great surprise Kurt finds Quinn and Artie together, looking very comfortable as they pour over a piece of paper. Kurt has never seen the pair spend any time together – although it's true that Quinn has softened considerably since last year – and they'd certainly rank fairly high on his list of 'McKinley High's most unlikely pairings'. He makes a mental note to interrogate them both at the next possible opportunity. His initial instinct is to rush to Mercedes to dissect this latest piece of gossip but instead he clears his throat and they both look up, smiling, and Quinn quickly folds up the piece of paper and slips it into her bag.

As he expected, once he has explained the idea they're both happy to help. Quinn practically leaps at the plan, which he expects has something to do with this guilt complex about last year that she seems to have going on; Mercedes has already told him of Quinn's insistence that they visited Rachel the previous Sunday. Apparently on arrival Quinn hadn't had a clue what to say to Rachel and had abandoned Mercedes to a debate on musical direction on Broadway. Artie is less exuberant but equally as agreeable, on the condition that he doesn't need to sit anywhere near Mike and Tina. At this point Quinn starts cooing and patting him on the arm, and Kurt quickly makes his leave, already far past his limit of people who profess not to be in relationships but act nauseatingly around one another.

GLEE!

Kurt finds Puck and Matt tossing a football at the end of second period. He'd noticed Puck's conspicuous absence from maths and had originally tried the nurse's office, but she'd informed him she had sent Noah to get some fresh air about half an hour ago, and he had yet to return. From there it's not difficult to track him down; if he's on school premises and not in the choir room or the nurse's office, chances are it'll be the football field.

As Matt spots Kurt approaching he lobs the ball to Kurt. Kurt's eyes widen and he squeals, throwing his hands up in front of his face and praying to Prada that the ball doesn't hit his freshly manicured nails. Fortunately he has lunged to the side, so Matt's well aimed ball goes whizzing past inches from his face. Matt snorts and shakes his head despairingly. He goes jogging after the while Puck sidles up to Kurt, hands jammed in his pockets. "You want something, Princess?"

Choosing to ignore the nickname, Kurt launches into an explanation. Puck seems more of less happy to go along with the idea, although he does feel the need to point out that, "I always found the whole sing-song thing a bit sickly."

Matt, who had re-appeared with the ball a moment ago, punches Puck on the arm. "Face it dude, all those songs last year were hardly for you. All you did was get your happy on. Quinn was the one who had to lug a baby around for nine months."

Something unreadable flashes across Puck's face, but a moment later it's gone to be replaced by his trademark leer. "Right then," he agrees, flexing his muscle. "Well, since I'm spending my whole lunchtime working I guess I'm due a few hours off. Gotta keep the Puckster energised. See you guys later." He struts away towards the parking lot and Kurt rolls his eyes.

"You'll pass on the message to Tina and Mike?" Kurt asks as he and Matt start making their way back towards school for third period.

"Sure," Matt replies, and unless Kurt's very much mistaken there's a definite edge to his voice. "Providing I can pry them apart for long enough, that is." Apparently Kurt is not the only one sick of the love-bug that seems to be going around.

GLEE!

The final bell has just rung and various members of the Glee club are filtering into the choir room and settling themselves down, the sound of chatter and laughter growing gradually louder. Kurt has been here for the last ten minutes, having feigned illness to escape history early, and is currently handing around the sheet music for everyone to have a last glance over the lyrics. Butterflies are fluttering in the pit of his stomach, and he is acutely aware of the fact that, depending on Rachel's (very volatile) mood, this could go badly wrong.

Rachel and Finn are the last to arrive, and fortunately she seems too dazed to notice the paper clutched in everyone's hands but her own. Besides, she hasn't sung since last week, so perhaps she simply doesn't care. The thought of Rachel Berry not caring about something to do with Glee makes Kurt's stomach twist uncomfortably, and he resolves to do everything within his power to get her back to her usual, abrasive self.

Mr. Schue strides into his room and claps his hands together, oblivious to everyone's sheet music. "Okay guys!" he starts, once the chatter has died and everyone has settled. "First thing first, does anyone have- Kurt?"

Kurt has got to his feet and cleared his throat, moving to the front of the room so he's standing beside his teacher. "I hope you don't mind, Mr. Schue," he tells the Spanish teacher confidently, "But we're kind of taking over rehearsal today." Mr. Schue raises his eyebrows in surprise, but at the nods and shooing motions from the rest of the club he shrugs and takes a seat, gesturing for Kurt to continue. "Finn?" Kurt prompts, as he returns to his place.

"What?" Finn asks, blinking stupidly. "Oh yeah, right." He gets to his feet, hands jammed firmly in his pockets, and shuffles to the place that Kurt has just vacated. Rubbing the back of his neck nervously, he glances at Rachel and then back towards the rest of the club. "So you were saying last night how you felt guilty and stuff," he addresses the back of the room and Kurt barely conceals a sigh. Really, the boy has no sense of public speaking. "For wanting your dads back, and saying you'd give up your mom and your friends in exchange. And..." Rachel is glaring at him, eyes narrowed in the same kind of way that they were this morning as she towered over Kurt, wrapped in a towel. Kurt doesn't blame Finn for falling silent; it's a fricking scary expression. Finn looks helplessly towards Kurt who pauses for a moment before sighing and inclining his head, deciding to take pity. With ill-disguised relief, Finn bolts back into a vacant seat, a couple of steps clear of his not-girlfriend.

Kurt licks his lips nervously and clears his throat. Twelve sets of eyes swivel towards him. "What Finn's trying to say, Rachel, is that we all have things we'd sacrifice that we're not necessarily proud of. Most the time we'll never get the chance, so it doesn't make us bad people. It just makes us... It makes us human." Rachel's eyes are on his face now, but they're less accusing so bolstered, he continues. "We all have things we get unreasonably angry about, and we can't help it."

"Yeah," Santana chips in. "Like, your voice irritates the hell out of me. And I try to like, suppress the urge, but most of the time I just want to punch you."

"Thank you, Santana," Kurt interjects primly before she can carry on. "My _point,_" he continues, as though there was no interruption, "Is that you need to feel whatever you want to feel. None of us will judge you for it. Because shock as it may be, none of us are perfect either." At this Rachel cracks a small (albeit forced) smile and Kurt feels himself relax slightly. "So we thought we'd go round in a circle and just tell you something. Something we'd sacrifice or something we've felt or thought that we're not proud of. So that you don't have to feel bad about whatever it is you need to think or feel." Out of the corner of his eye, Kurt can see Mr. Schue smiling his approval.

Finn shifts from his position below Rachel and clears his throat. "I'll start," he suggests when nobody immediately volunteers their piece. "When I found out Beth wasn't mine I was so angry." Out of the corner of his eye, Kurt sees Puck and Quinn tense at the mention of their daughter's name. "For a while I couldn't really work out who I was angry at, it was all just this blurry mess of red in my head. And for a while I wished something would happen to Beth, just so I'd never have to see the daughter that wasn't mine. I kind of hate myself for thinking that now, because it was never her fault."

There is an uncomfortable silence at this revelation and Kurt finds himself suddenly wondering if this whole sharing thing wise. Puck looks like he's fighting the urge to punch someone which would undoubtedly throw a halt to the proceedings, but before he's given the chance to react Quinn surprises everyone. "Once, I wished the same thing," she confesses, speaking so quietly Kurt has to strain his ears. "I wished something would happen to her so that I wouldn't have to be responsible, so that I wouldn't have to deal with it. I even tried to get drunk once after I found out I was pregnant. I just wanted to miscarry so that it would all be over and I could go back to my life. But then I think of that beautiful little baby girl I held in my arms, and I realise that as much as it all sucked, I wouldn't change it for the world." Kurt stares as a tear trickles down her face.

Puck reaches forward to squeeze Quinn's shoulder, his fists mercifully unclenched and wearing an unusually soft expression. "I used to wish she _was_ Finn's," he admits gruffly, drawing everyone's eyes away from Quinn's tear-streaked face. "For a while it was easier just to pretend, so that I wouldn't have to deal with the whole thing. But Quinn's right. I _can't_ regret it, not now I've seen her. She's perfect."

The following silence is deafening. Quinn and Finn are avoiding looking at any of their fellow Glee clubbers, instead choosing to examine their nails (Quinn) or shoes (Finn). Puck, on the other hand, is staring challengingly around the room, just _daring_ anyone to follow that. Kurt's mind has gone completely blank, and he can't for the life of him think of what he had meant to contribute. Mercifully, Santana can. "I'd make a sex-tape with Brittany to keep my spot as head-Cheerio," she announces, as though commenting on the weather. Nervous laughter breaks out and Puck's eyes practically boggle out of his head as his head spins so fast it's a miracle he doesn't get whiplash. Quinn coughs something which sounds suspiciously like "some sacrifice" and Kurt screws his eyes closed at the mental images that are suddenly assaulting him.

For her part, Brittany simply grins. "I'd snog Santana, just 'cos," she declares, before proceeding to do so, much to the approval of the slack-mouthed Puck, Finn, Matt, Artie and Mike. She pulls away, lips swollen. "But I'm proud of that one." Everybody bursts out laughing, and suddenly the nervous atmosphere has dissipated. The remaining members begin throwing out suggestions.

"I'd cripple someone else if it meant I could walk again," announces Archie unapologetically. "Every man for himself."

"I u-used to f-fake a stutter," Tina admits to the room at large. "But then Artie showed me it wasn't fair to d-do something like that when s-so many people couldn't help their problems. I'm ashamed of that n-now when I think about it, and n-now sometimes I can't help it."

"I'd steal a mate's girl," Mike says quietly. "I never used to think I could, or I would, but it turns out I did. I'm sorry Artie. I'm not sorry for doing it, because I can't be, but I'm sorry I had to hurt you to do it. I'm not proud of myself."

Matt is next. "I used to take the piss out of Mike for dancing, so he only ever used to do it in his room 'cos he believed me when I said it was gay. I was the only one he ever told before Glee, and I laughed at him. I was stupid. Dancing's awesome, and Mike's totally the best dancer I know." He flashes a grin at his best mate, which is readily returned along with a high-five.

A voice from the corner of the room startles Kurt, and he turns towards Mr. Schue, having forgotten their teacher was there and wondering what he is making of the revelations. Mr. Schue's next words make Kurt quite sure that he's in no position to judge _any_ of them. "I'd plant drugs in a talented student's locker to make them join the Glee club," he announces, eyes fixed on Finn, whose face is changing expressions faster than even Rachel is capable of. Someone lets out a low whistle and everyone is staring between Finn and Mr. Schuester, waiting with baited breath for Finn's reaction.

"I guess..." he says eventually, jaw working furiously but clearly struggling to actually form words. "I guess... I guess we're in no position to judge, Mr. Schue. And I'm kind of glad you did."

An audible collective sigh of relief is breathed. As much as Kurt appreciates Mr. Schue's contribution, the last thing they need right now is for Finn to storm out - the whole thing _is_ his idea, after all. Kurt realises only he and Mercedes are remaining, so clears his throat. Though most of the confessions have been spontaneous, he and Mercedes have rehearsed their bit. Life is, after all, nothing but a performance. "After my mom died," Kurt starts in his best natural voice, "I used to wish it had been my dad. And I know that you're never supposed to say you love one parent more than the other" – a coughing fit comes from Quinn's direction – "and I don't, I realise that now. But at the time I just missed my mom so much. I'd just figured out I was gay, and I think that's just something you need your mom for, you know? And she wasn't there, it was just my dad. I resented him for that for so long."

Rachel shifts uncomfortably in her seat and Kurt can tell his story has struck a chord. Her face is as open as it ever is and she's surprisingly easy to read in this state. Though he only knows certain details of Rachel's situation relayed via Finn, he did witness the entire argument between Rachel and Ms. Corcoran, so has ascertained the way Rachel feels is not unlike how he once did. Resentful. "We just want you to know this stuff, Rach, so that if you're feeling angry or hurt or unreasonable you know you can come to us and say or scream or sing whatever you need to, and we won't judge. We're your friends." He smiles gently at her and she returns the smile, swiping at her eyes. Before she grows too emotional – because God knows, he wants to help, but he's not sure he's ready to deal with a weeping Rachel Berry - he turns to Mercedes, affecting his stage voice. "And what about you, Mercedes?" he asks. "You haven't said anything yet."

From her seat beside him she turns and rolls her eyes at his acting, but is nevertheless smiling. "I'd sing one of those godawful _Mamma Mia! _songs if it would make Rachel feel better," she announces. "Sell my soul to the devil, you know." At these Finn takes his cue and gets to his feet, taking Rachel's hand. He pulls her across the room and deposits her in a stool facing the rest of the group before returning to his place. The remainder of the club shuffle so they're in some vague formation.

With a nod from Kurt to Brad, the opening notes sound and Quinn stands. As she sings she takes careful steps around Artie's wheelchair and approaches Rachel, taking her hand.

"_Chiquitita, tell me what's wrong  
You're enchained by your own sorrow  
In your eyes there is no hope for tomorrow_

Keeping hold of Rachel's hand, Quinn stands beside the stool. Artie and Kurt join in together next, Kurt pushing Artie's wheelchair across the choir room. Artie manoeuvres his wheelchair into place beside Rachel's stool and takes her other hand in his own, while Kurt stands just behind her, squeezing her shoulder.

"_How I hate to see you like this  
There is no way you can deny it  
I can see that you're oh so sad, so quiet_

The next person to get to her feet and cross the room is Mercedes. Despite all her earlier protestations about the song choice, she sounds every bit the star she is as she kneels down before Rachel, taking the smaller girl's hands in her own.

"_Chiquitita, tell me the truth  
I'm a shoulder you can cry on  
Your best friend, I'm the one you must rely on  
You were always sure of yourself  
Now I see you've broken a feather  
I hope we can patch it up together_

As she sings the last line Kurt sees her reach up to brush Rachel's cheek. He can't see Rachel's face so doesn't know if she's crying, but nevertheless he squeezes her shoulder all the more tightly, doing what he can to impart some strength. Mercedes gets to her feet and stands to his side and he slips his free hand into hers as Puck and Finn stand up together. They'd spent at least twenty minutes at lunchtime bickering like twelve-year-old girls over who got to sing what, until eventually Santana had snapped and told them they could sing together. They'd both looked like they were about to protest but Santana had shot them a glare that would've quieted far greater men and they'd both wisely fallen silent. They did, however, spend the remainder of the rehearsal sulking.

"_Chiquitita, you and I know  
How the heartaches come and they go and the scars they're leaving  
You'll be dancing once again and the pain will end  
You will have no time for grieving_

"_Chiquitita, you and I cry  
But the sun is still in the sky and shining above you  
Let me hear you sing once more like you did before  
Sing a new song, chiquitita  
Try once more like you did before  
Sing a new song, chiquitita_

They both give her a hug, each apparently trying to hold on for longer than the other, so that by the time Mercedes grabs Puck by the scruff of his neck and pulls him away, Santana and Brittany are already on their feet. Santana pats Rachel on the arm – quite the gesture of affection, coming from her – whereas Brittany throws her arms around Rachel and sings into her neck, voice muffled:

"_So the walls came tumbling down  
And your love's a blown out candle  
All is gone and it seems too hard to handle_

The final three stand up and, singing, cross the room to where the rest of the group is congregated. They each squeeze Rachel's arm or, in Tina's case, give her a brief hug, before moving into their positions and completing the half semi-circle around Rachel.

"_Chiquitita, tell me the truth  
There is no way you can deny it  
I see that you're oh so sad, so quiet_

As the group launch into the final chorus they break out of their formation and Brittany grabs Rachel's hand and pulls her to her feet. They form a lose kind of circle, singing together with Rachel stood in the middle. Kurt can see her face now, and indeed her eyes are shining with tears, but she's also smiling widely for the first time since last Thursday and his heart melts a little bit. He never imagined he'd miss that smile, but God, he has done.

"_Chiquitita, you and I know  
How the heartaches come and they go and the scars they're leaving  
You'll be dancing once again and the pain will end  
You will have no time for grieving_

Brittany twirls Rachel around, and everyone laughs and begins joining in, passing Rachel from pair of arms to pair of arms. Her eyes are shining with a mixture of tears and laughter.

"_Chiquitita, you and I cry  
But the sun is still in the sky and shining above you  
Let me hear you sing once more like you did before  
Sing a new song, chiquitita_

As the music begins to quiet Quinn grabs hold of Rachel and stills her, sliding an arm around her waist. Mercedes, on her other side, does the same, and the group rock to the final few lines, the boys and girls singing alternatively.

"_Try once more like you did before  
Sing a new song, chiquitita  
Try once more like you did before  
Sing a new song, chiquitita"_

The final chords play and it's a blur of hugs and tears and Kurt finds himself crushed between Matt and Brittany but he doesn't care. The only thing worth thinking about is Rachel's muffled, "Thank you," as she presses her face against Puck's chest. Not even Santana can hide her smile at those words.

* * *

Song is Abba's _Chiquitita_.


	9. of Beer and Bargaining, part III

Hey! I'm still here – it turns out miracles do happen. I'm not going to offer any excuses because frankly I don't have any, but I would like to take a moment to reassure people that however long it takes (and I sincerely hope it won't be this long again) I have every intention of finishing this story.

It's going to be another couple of chapters until the reunion I'm sure you're all dying to read, but I'd ask you to bear with me until then, as the setup is just as important. I have a bit of an interlude this time, because I love Quinn and I couldn't not. Thanks to everyone who's back here reading this – the fact you're here after all this time is amazing! – and especially to my anonymous reviewers _Jacky Setta, Gleeeee, Megaera, Anna, Adam Kroner_ and _lilian._

**Glee Club: of Beer and Bargaining, part III**

"Hey, Fabray! Quinn, wait up!" It is the third time he has shouted, and realising she can ignore the offer no longer, Quinn turns to face the source of the calls; Noah Puckerman is jogging across the parking lot, keys clutched in his hand and panting slightly from the exertion of running from the football field. "Want a lift?" he offers, coming to a halt before her and bending over slightly to catch his breath. And to think he calls himself a stud - she was fitter at six months pregnant.

Quinn's eyes narrow suspiciously and she places a hand on her newly slim waist. "What's in it for you?" she asks accusingly, the question just a little rougher than she'd intended. She may have seen a softer side to Puck recently, but she also has a memory and she's certainly no fool. "Because if you even _think_ I'm sleeping with you again after the mess we got into the last time, then you're even more of an imbec-"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down Fabray," he interjects, holding up his hands and wearing a wounded-puppy expression which does absolutely nothing to help – childlike innocence is so far-fetched on Puck that it's laughable. "It's a lift, not a plan to create Puckerman spawn 2.0. Although you have to admit, we make hot babies, so if you ever-"

It's Quinn's turn to cut off the dialogue; she reaches up and smacks Puck squarely around the back of the head. "You're insufferable," she informs him tartly, before allowing her features to soften slightly into an almost-smile. "But a lift would be nice." Truth be told, she _hadn't_ been looking forward to waiting for the bus.

He reaches up and rubs the back of his head, muttering something about psycho bitches, and how it's not fair that girls are allowed to hit guys but not vice versa. Quinn simply laughs and takes his car keys from him, unlocking the truck and sliding into the passenger seat. The position is a familiar one; she spent the bulk of the first few weeks of summer sat here. For almost a month after Beth was born he'd pick her up every day, like clockwork, and drive her a few miles down the road. They'd park up and pass a couple of cans of beer between them, sometimes pouring over a letter from Beth's adoptive parents, sometimes talking, sometimes just sitting in companionable silence. They never drank much, and indeed it wasn't really the alcohol she needed (she'd learnt _that_ lesson the hard way), but his company. Everyone meant well – her mother, Mrs. Winters, even Santana had her moments – but nobody really had a clue. Nobody does, except him.

So they'd continued until out of the blue one day he'd called her up and told her he couldn't make it, that he and Santana had 'plans'. And that was the end of it. A part of Quinn is happy that Puck appears to have moved on, but a more selfish part still needs the easy silence they used to share, not to mention the unspoken knowledge that she isn't alone. She doesn't understand how it can go from being so hard to so easy for him. Because God knows, it's still the hardest thing in the world for her.

"_Quinn!"_ Puck's voice breaks into her thoughts. She blinks and turns to him, startled to see houses passing by outside the window. "Geez woman, you're totally out of it today," he comments, turning back to the road. "That time of the month huh?" She scowls, but otherwise chooses not to dignify his comment with a response. "I was saying we need to stop off at the supermarket on the way home, I promised my mom I'd pick up some milk." His eyes flicker back to her for a brief moment, and unless Quinn's very much mistaken she thinks she detects concern on his features.

Forcing a smile onto her face, she nods and attempts to sound enthusiastic. "Sure, I could do with some new moisturiser anyway." Apparently satisfied, Puck re-focuses fully on the road and Quinn's shoulders slump slightly as she sinks into the seat. She's only been back at school a couple of weeks, but she can't remember ever being so _tired._ Unsurprisingly, with the tiredness comes irritation, and she can't count the number of people she's unnecessarily snapped at over the past seven days alone. Mercifully Puck seems to sense her mood and doesn't press for conversation, simply reaching forward and turning the radio up.

"We're here," he announces a few minutes later, cutting the engine and silencing the Green Day song she's been absent-mindedly humming along to. Quinn glances outside and sees that indeed they've just pulled up in the car park, the truck abandoned sloppily across two bays as seems to be Puck's trademark. "Want me to just run in, or are you coming?"

Quinn, whose mind is occupied by an odd daydream involving Rachel's head on Beth's body, turns. "Am I coming?" she echoes blankly, trying to refocus on the present.

"Hard and fast," he grins, holding up his palm for a high five. _From her._ She narrows her eyes in her best Sue Sylvester withering glare. Sheepishly, he lowers his hand and clears his throat, unconvincingly trying to pass the gesture off as reaching for the door handle. "Come on then," he says, leaning across her and pushing the door open.

They fall into an easy discussion about Glee as they make their way into the supermarket and across to the fridges. Puck is convinced that the way to go this year is to include more _rap_ in their set lists, but Quinn can think of nothing more horrific, especially considering Mr. Schue would probably feel the need to demonstrate at least once a week. She _still_ hasn't recovered from his rendition of _Ice, Ice Baby_ last year.

They're standing in the women's beauty section, Quinn doubled over in laughter as Puck raps along to _Where Is The Love?_, which has just started playing on the speakers. His performance is complete with hand gestures and head banging, and while she realises he's exaggerating for her amusement, she can't help but grin at his act. She's forgotten this about him, forgotten the way he can always, without fail, put a smile on her face by doing something goofy or stupid. Something that if Finn did she'd roll her eyes and scoff, but from Puck just seems more forgivable somehow.

Suddenly he trails away and she straightens up inquiringly, rubbing the tears of laughter from her eyes. As she blinks and the world comes back into focus, she feels her stomach drop and she rapidly sobers: Shelby Corcoran is stood before them, eyebrow raised in what Quinn can only hope is amusement.

"Well, if this is what New Direction's offering up this year, I guess I can tell Vocal Adrenaline to take a couple of weeks off." She's smiling but Quinn isn't fooled; the woman's an actress after all. While her expression might be almost convincing there are telltale bags beneath her eyes and her shoulders are ever-so-slightly slumped, as though she can't quite bring herself to stand up straight. Quinn recognises the body language, for she sees it reflected in the mirror every morning.

"Hey Ms. C," Puck replies, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly and shuffling imperceptibly closer to Quinn. "How're you do..." He trails away, and Quinn can practically _see_ him rapidly rethink the question, for it's fairly obvious how Shelby Corcoran is doing. "I mean, it's nice to see you." He glances helplessly towards Quinn, who decides to take pity. She doesn't have a lot of positive things to say about her upbringing, especially where her father's concerned, but one thing countless hours of family and church meals have taught her is how to make small talk throughout even the most awkward of situations. Of which she's fairly sure this just about tops the list.

"It's good to see you, Ms. Corcoran," she repeats, slipping her hand into Puck's. She doesn't quite understand why, but standing here with Rachel's mother makes her feel oddly vulnerable. The constant dull ache which has followed her around since she gave birth to Beth feels just a little more pronounced as she sees herself reflected in the older woman. "Puck and I are just on our way home from Glee practise; I can promise _Where Is The Love?_ _won't _be on our set list this year, not if I have anything at all to do with it."

Ms. Corcoran laughs politely and shuffles, in a gesture so unlike her usually cool, composed self that Quinn glances away, trying to give her more privacy. It is an odd situation; standing here with the biological estranged mother of her ex-enemy with the father of her own illegitimate child. Quinn can't quite work out whose side she's supposed to be on. On the one hand she feels a certain loyalty – and, surprisingly, protectiveness - towards Rachel, but on the other she cannot help but experience a pang of empathy for Ms. Corcoran. The older woman shifts uncomfortably, clearly trying to find words to ask the question Quinn knows is on the tip of her tongue. "Was Rachel...?"

"She was there," Quinn replies quickly, trying to ease the desperate expression on the teacher's face. "She's fine... Well she's not fine, but she's okay, you know?" Ms. Corcoran nods, puffing out a breath and turning determinedly to study the contents of the shelf to her left. Quinn continues, a little easier now she can't see Ms. Corcoran's pained expression. "She misses you. She'll figure that out herself soon enough."

There is a moment's awkward silence during which Quinn glances desperately at Puck, who merely shrugs helplessly. He starts to mouth something which Quinn can't make out, but then Ms. Corcoran turns back with that fake smile plastered on her face, apparently having sufficiently composed herself. "Well it was nice seeing you both," she says, not quite making eye contact. "Take care."

"And you, Ms. Corcoran," Quinn replies. After a beat of silence from Puck she squeezes his hand pointedly.

"Oh, yeah... yeah, bye," he responds, lifting his free hand in a parting wave, which she distractedly returns. "See you around."

The pair is much more subdued as they pay for their groceries and make their way back towards the truck. Quinn can't shake a nagging feeling of discomfort. Is this what she has in store for the rest of her life? Years of waiting, wondering and loneliness? Desperately trying to convince herself that she made the right decision in giving up her child? Every rational part of her brain knows that she did, knows that she had neither the ability nor desire to bring up a child and that Beth is far, _far_ better off with her adoptive parents. Somehow, that knowledge doesn't seem to ease the ache.

And really, another voice nags, she could've done it if she'd wanted to, couldn't she? Other people do. Kids younger than her, and with less help. It's not like she didn't have any support whatsoever; her mother had offered to convert a room into a nursery, and Puck... His offers mightn't have been realistic, but they were well meaning. He'd have tried. Which, that voice adds, is more than she was willing to do.

Another journey passes by without her notice and it isn't until the truck judders to a halt that Quinn realises Puck has driven straight past her house. She's about to open her mouth to ask why when she suddenly realises exactly where they are and an, "Oh," of surprise falls from her lips instead.

The lay-by where they spent the first few weeks of summer looks exactly how she remembers, even down to the couple of empty beer cans squashed into the muddy ground. The leaves have just started to turn golden and red, but for now the trees are mostly still green, promising life and hopefulness. Despite not being the most aesthetic of spots - just off the highway and a regular stop for horny pairs of teens, nobody really comes here for the view - it nevertheless causes a feeling of calm to settle over Quinn. The irony of the fact they use the local make-out spot to contemplate their baby daughter doesn't escape Quinn, yet somehow she finds it doesn't matter. That's not what this place means to her.

Quinn is aware of Puck cutting the engine and sliding his seat back, propping his feet on the dashboard and languidly placing his hands behind his head. She too slides her seat backwards, but just to allow her room to pull her knees to her chest and prop her chin on them, gazing out of the windscreen. The radio is playing some old country song and while it's not Quinn's first choice, she cannot deny that the melancholy twang seems particularly poignant.

For long moments neither of them speak, Quinn lost in thoughts of Beth, and Puck – well, Quinn has no idea what he thinks of in moments of silence but she imagines it's far less innocent than their baby daughter. It seems that she might be wrong however, for after a few minutes he unexpectedly drops his feet to the floor and turns to face Quinn, jaw set. "Look, Fabray, I know you think I don't give a fuck, bu-"

Dropping her own knees she turns to face him, defences immediately riled even though she doesn't even know what they're arguing about. She's so _on edge_ these days, yet the knowledge never does anything to calm her temper. "Who pissed on your cereal?" she demands. "And what the hell are you even talking about?"

"Oh don't play all innocent with me," he snaps. "I see the way you look at me, don't think I'm blind. I know you think I'm a heartless pig."

"What are you even-"

"Oh come on, Quinn, don't be so stupid!"

"Don't call me stupid!"

"Would you rather bitch, because that works for me to?"

"Don't-"

"Oh please, like you haven't been biting _everyone's_ head off for no reason."

She simply gapes at him, not quite sure how their tranquil silence has evolved into this argument. Still, they're here now, and it seems as good a time as any to finally get some things out into the open. "Well what am I supposed to think?" she demands, dropping all pretence of denial and turning to face him fully. "We had a _kid_, Noah. A living, breathing daughter. I thought you got that at first, but clearly not if you're back to screwing your way around the entire female population of Ohi-"

"Not that it's _any_ of your business, Fabray, but I haven't slept with _anyone_ since Beth was born."

Momentarily stunned, Quinn's draw drops open. A moment later she snaps it shut. "Oh _please_. You expect me to believe that? What about Santana? Don't tell me you two really do just 'hang out'. I didn't realise either of you even knew that phrase had any meaning other than sex."

Puck's jaw is clenched tightly and he's looking straight ahead now, knuckles white around the steering wheel. "Fuck off," he hisses. "Don't bring Santana into this. Again, not that it has anything _whatso-fucking-ever_ to do with you, but San won't sleep with me. Says I'm clearly too fragile, or whatever. That it'll mean more to me than her, and that's not fair on either of us." He snorts, and continues in a self-deprecating tone. "You know you're doing something wrong when _Santana's_ turning down a shag."

Quinn isn't quite sure what to make of this revelation, but it has certainly caused the bubbling anger to dissolve. She feels a small twinge of pride for one of her oldest friends; Santana's usual instinct is to _do_ first, ask questions later. Clearly she's been more of a friend to Puck than Quinn herself has. "I didn't... I don't..." She can't quite seem to find the right words so simply trails away. After a moment's silence she tries again. "You just seem _so..._"

"Yeah, well," Puck forces a smirk now, and though Quinn see's straight through it she says nothing; it's a relief to be back on more familiar territory. "The Puckster's got a reputation to maintain."

"What about during the summer?" Quinn replies, not quite managing to keep the self-pitying note from her voice. "I could've used you then, you know? I thought we had... I don't know, had a thing?"

A heavy sigh drops from Puck's lips and he turns to stare out the driver's window. Quinn can see a small circle steaming up with each exhalation, and then slowly demisting. "I'm sorry," he admits after a brief pause, and it's not at all the reply Quinn had expected. She sits, patiently, sensing there's more. "I... It was killing me, you know? And being around you just made it all so much more real. And I knew it was selfish because I knew you needed me but, God, I just couldn't hack it. Being with San was just so much more straightforward. I'd scream at her and she'd scream back and afterwards she'd just sit with me and she wouldn't care." It strikes Quinn, suddenly, quite how much Santana has done for them both this summer. She'd say thanks, but Santana would probably kill her for being so sentimental.

Puck's still speaking, his forehead resting against the glass. "We were naive to think we were what each other needed, Quinn. We were both far too fucked up to be of any use to anyone." He turns to her then, eyes as sincere as she's ever seen them. "But I'm _here_ now. I swear, Quinn. That's what I brought you out here to say. Whenever. Whatever. If you just want to talk or yell or cry or sit. I'm here."

Impassioned speech over, Puck's gaze falls to his lap while Quinn rapidly blinks back the tears she hadn't realised were forming. It is rare she sees Puck's sensitive side, and she suspects she's one of the few who ever does, but it always manages to catch her unawares. Fortunately she is saved the necessity of finding a suitable reply by the timely vibration of her cell, and she glances at the screen which reads 'Mom'. Smiling apologetically at Puck, she flips the phone open and holds it to her ear. "Hi Mom."

"Quinn!" Her mother's frantic voice sounds down the phone and Quinn cannot resist rolling her eyes. Judy seems lately to be under the impression that any time she cannot contact her daughter, Quinn must surely be sleeping her way around the football team until she finds herself pregnant again. Because the first time was such a bundle of laughs. "Where are you? You said you'd be home by five!"

Puck, clearly able to hear the high pitched voice through the phone, is mouthing the words along with her mom, wagging a finger accusingly at Quinn, who has to stifle a giggle. "I know, I'm sorry mom," she says placatingly, while swatting Puck's hand away. "I just went to the grocery store to pick some stuff up... Puck, why?... No, Mother, he is not impregnating me again. I am capable of spending time with a male without having sex with him, you know."

"Whatever you say, Fabray," Puck murmurs suggestively from beside her, prompting Quinn to hit him squarely in the chest. Nevertheless she cannot help but feel a little easier as this version of Puck returns, in his irritating and inappropriate glory. She grins at him as she continues mollify Judy.

"Yes, I know... I'll be home in ten minutes... See you then. Bye Mom." Exasperated, she snaps her phone closed and shrugs apologetically at Puck. "We better head off. I don't think Mom trusts you not to magic your sperm into my uterus, or whatever."

"Ew, too much information."

"Puck, for Goodness' sake! You got me pregnant, surely you can handle the word uterus."

Pulling a face, he fastens his seatbelt and turns the key in the ignition, jarring the engine into life. "So anyway, Fabray," he says, glancing over his shoulder before pulling out. "What's the deal with you and the crippled kid?"

"Puck! You know his name."

"Yeah, I guess. Kurt, right?"

"Puck!"

"I always dreamed I'd have you screaming my name in this truck." She stops herself repeating the admonishment a second before it leaves her lips, settling instead on a glower. Noticing his victory, Puck beams. "Seriously though. You and Artie?"

Quinn glances at him for a moment, trying to work out where this line of questioning is leading. "Me and Artie nothing," she admits after a brief pause. "We're just friends. He's a good guy."

"Figured that," Puck nods sagely. "Of course, I did wonder if you were just with him so you didn't have to worry about getting preggers again."

Lost, Quinn raises her eyebrows in confusion. "Excuse me?"

"Well, you know, surely he's not..." Puck glances around as though expecting an audience, then starts making a lewd gesture. "Firing on all cylinders?"

"Puck!"

"Oh yeah, say my name, baby!"

Not dignifying this with a reply, Quinn settles to watching the houses pass by. It doesn't take long until she starts thinking of her own home and remembers starkly the feeling of suddenly having nowhere to go, of being alone in the world, just her and the little pea growing inside her. A dull weight settles in her chest as she thinks of Rachel struggling to cling onto the last remnants of family she has left in her life. She can't blame Rachel for pushing Ms. Corcoran away, yet at the same time knows acutely the feeling of being rejected by those who are supposed to love you unconditionally, and feels yet another rush of empathy for Vocal Adrenaline's coach.

The remainder of the journey passes in silence. It's not until they've pulled up outside Quinn's house and Quinn has reached for the door that she unexpectedly feels a restraining hand on her arm and turns, questioningly. "What?" Puck seems to be having some sort of internal struggle, for he keeps his hand on Quinn's arm and rapidly opens then closes her mouth. _"What?"_ Quinn repeats, eyes flicking towards her living room window where she's quite certain the curtains have just twitched. Perfect, an audience. Probably Judy ensuring they don't have one last quick round on the drive, or whatever. Knowing her mother, she has one of those kitty water sprays at the ready, just in case. Anyone who didn't know Quinn would think she was a nymphomaniac.

Puck finally seems to have settled on something to say, and he drops his hand awkwardly. It's not an adjective she'd usually associate with him, and for some reason it unnerves her. "Me and you... Do you think... Could there ever be anything there?"

His eyes flick up to meet hers, and she forces herself not to look away. Truthfully it's a question she's spent many days agonising over, and she's not sure she's come to any sort of conclusion. Still, after today, Puck deserves something. "Honestly?" she starts slowly, trying to bide herself time to sort through her jumbled thoughts. "I think there'll always be something there." His eyes light up and she quickly holds up a hand. "But I think right now, it's like you said. There's still too much."

"Right now?" She hates herself for the hopeful note she can hear in his voice.

"For a while, probably," she clarifies. "We'd be getting in over our heads. Again. Right now, I just need to focus on the easy stuff."

He pauses, apparently considering this. "Like captaining the cheerios and winning nationals?"

"Yeah," she smiles, and he mirrors the expression. "Easy stuff like that." Before the moment has a chance to get awkward she leans forward and pecks him on the cheek, then undoes her seatbelt and reaches once more for the door. She's almost out the car when she turns one last time, and grins as she sees his fingers brushing the spot where her lips have just been, an astonished expression on his face. "And Puck?" she says, causing him to drop his hand and raise his eyebrows in question. "Thanks."

He grins, and just like that things are once again back to normal. "No problem. And you know Fabray, if you ever want to thank me properly..." He raises his eyebrows suggestively and leers.

"Do one, Puckerman."

GLEE!

One of the few advantages of being pregnant, Quinn decides, was being able to eat whatever the hell she liked, whenever she liked. Last year, putting on weight had been such a biological inevitability that even attempting to fight the varied and regular cravings had seemed futile. Instead, Quinn catered to her unborn child's every wish, from fish fingers dipped in milk, to chocolate coated bananas (the latter of which has remained a favourite). The calories were shovelled in and the weight piled on, but the pea in her stomach was rapidly growing and some previously unknown maternal must have kicked in at some point, for she kept the child well fed.

Now, however, Quinn has no excuse. With a sigh, she bids goodbye to Mercedes who's heading to lunch, and sets an aimless path through the school. While she likes to think she is far from the vain, narcissistic girl of last year, regaining her figure has been more than a struggle for popularity (though she'll be the first to admit that was certainly part of it), it's been confirmation that she is, finally, once again in control of her own body. While she perhaps won't go to the lengths she has in the past – never again in her life is she touching one of Sue Sylvester's 'protein shakes' – her figure is something she's proud of. And well, if maintaining that means skipping lunch and wandering the school a few times a week, or hauling herself out of bed an hour early on a morning to go for a jog, she's pretty sure she can suck it up.

It's one of these aimless lunchtime walks the Friday after the funeral that finds Quinn drifting past the auditorium, half formed thoughts of heading to the library to finish her history essay, when she hears the careful plodding of a piano drifting from the room. Coming to a stop, she pauses and listens, unable to make out the tune. It's rare that anyone other than Glee members use the auditorium during lunch, and the pianist definitely isn't Brad; the touch is far heavier and clearly less skilled.

Curiosity getting the better of her, Quinn eases open the door and slips inside unnoticed. Her eyes take a second to adjust to the darkness – whoever's practising hasn't bothered to switch on the lights – but after a few moments her vision trains towards the piano, and she instantly recognises the petite figure hunched over the keys.

Quinn's torn. On the one hand the strong dislike she felt towards Rachel at the beginning of last year has long since melted into a grudging respect and the cautious beginnings of a friendship. On the other, she has repeatedly found herself at a loss over how and what to say to Rachel over the past week, and a large part of her balks at the thought of optionally entering into what will almost certainly be a painfully awkward conversation with the grieving girl. Still, Quinn likes to think that, if nothing else over the past year, she has at least grown as a person. So she ignores the voice telling her to slip out unnoticed and instead pads down the auditorium steps. Rachel shows no sign of noticing, even as Quinn drops quietly onto the bench beside her, instead continuing to clumsily pick out a half-familiar melody.

For a few minutes Quinn closes her eyes and simply allows the music to wash over her. It is far from perfect, yet there is a certain undeniable quality, which Rachel seems to be able to add to anything musical that she turns her hand to. It hasn't escaped Quinn's notice that Rachel has refused every chance to sing that she's been offered since last Thursday, and although under any other circumstances Quinn would have relished the opportunity for more solos, she finds she misses the other girl's voice, as irritating as it can be. Though she doubts _any_ of the club would ever admit it – except possibly Finn, who goes doe-eyed at the mere mention of Rachel – the vocals suffer significantly when Rachel doesn't sing. Sectionals are fast approaching, and if they're to stand a chance they need her help.

The music stops, and Quinn opens her eyes to find to large, brown ones staring unblinkingly back at her. The grief in them is evident, but there is also a question, and it is this infinitely simpler issue that Quinn chooses to address. "I heard someone playing," she offers by way of explanation. "I didn't know you played the piano."

Rachel studies her for a second more before turning back to the keys and starting to run off scales. "I don't, really," she admits, eyes focussed on her right hand. "I started taking lessons after Jesse played it during _Bohemian Rhapsody_ last year. I realised it could be crucial for my future career." Though the statement is reminiscent of old-Rachel, it lacks any real conviction. Nevertheless, Quinn finds herself smiling at the anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better mentality when it comes to her ex-boyfriend. Quinn doesn't doubt that once the shock of Regionals had worn off Rachel had immediately thrown herself into this latest pursuit, determined not to let Jesse St. James one-up her.

"Are you two still in touch?" she asks casually, although of course she knows the answer. She and Jesse talk surprisingly regularly, although the relationship is strictly platonic. Quinn finds it somewhat refreshing to have somebody outside her usual friendship group to bitch to, especially someone like Jesse who quite literally _lives_ for drama. At the same time he seems keen to keep up with what's happening with New Directions. Despite his altogether abominable departure, Quinn can't help but have a slight soft spot for her ex-teammate.

It doesn't hurt that he's totally hot.

Oblivious to Quinn's trail of thought, Rachel shakes her head, almost sadly. "He apologised," she admits. "For the whole egging thing. But, I just... It wasn't the same after that."

Quinn nods, feeling unmistakable relief at the direction of the conversation. Boyfriend drama, she can _totally_ deal with (and Rachel's certainly had her fair share of _that_ too). Dead parents, not so much. "He was a jerk," she agrees sincerely. "And besides, long-distance is always destined for disaster. Still, I bet you two will meet on Broadway one day. Leading man and lady from Ohio."

Instead of instantly perking up at the mention of her future as Quinn might have expected, Rachel sighs softly. "I guess," she responds, without any real enthusiasm. Her hand drops from the keyboard to her lap and she looks so melancholy that Quinn wracks her brain desperately for any possible change of subject.

"I saw your mom yesterday," she blurts, before she can stop herself.

Rachel's eyes narrow and harden, and at least some of the grief is replaced by a surprising bitterness; Quinn's not sure which is more distressing. "She's not my mom," Rachel declares resolutely, although she seems unable to maintain eye contact and a second later she's turned back to study the piano keys.

"Rachel, sweetie." The endearment seems to surprise the brunette, for her eyes flick back up to search Quinn's face. Quinn is grateful for the half-light masking her expression. "She is. Maybe not in every single sense of the word. But right now? In all the ones that matter? She's your mom." Though she isn't sure, Quinn thinks Rachel's eyes might be shining with tears. She chooses to press on regardless, willing Rachel to understand and hoping, somehow and someday, Beth might too. "She loves you. She'd do anything for you."

Staring at Quinn almost accusingly, Rachel speaks with a voice barely above a whisper. "You can't know that," she insists, and although Quinn wouldn't have believed her heart had many pieces left, she swears it breaks just a little more as she catches sight of the innocent vulnerability Rachel is no longer making an effort to hide.

"Yes, I can," she insists firmly. "_I'm_ a mom, Rach, just like Ms. Corcoran. If Beth ever needed me, for _anything_, I'd be there in a heartbeat."

Rachel gazes at Quinn uncertainly for a minute longer. Eventually she gives a defeated sigh. "I know... I know she only wants what's best for me," she admits, although her voice is faltering and more than a little unsure. "I just don't know if I can take it, not yet. Not from her."

Quinn's gaze is a mixture of pity and sorrow. "Rachel," she exhales softly, cringing inwardly as she thinks of all the times she's used other, far less complementary names. "Ms. Corcoran, she's your mom, she'll wait forever for you to figure it out." She chews her lip uncertainly, now fighting back her own tears as she thinks of everything she's given up in her own child. "Just... Just don't make her wait too long, will you? Because right now? Her heart will be breaking."

At these words the tears which have been pooling in Rachel's eyes finally start slipping down her cheeks. Without thinking, Quinn pulls the other girl towards her, guiding her head towards her chest and holding on tight. After a minute a couple of her own tears escape and drip slowly down her face and onto Rachel's hair. The silent tears coming from her usually melodramatic companion scare Quinn far more than wracking sobs would, and she thinks fleetingly of the old adage that the child crying silently is the one who's truly hurt.

Quinn's not quite sure whether the semi-relationship that has developed between herself and Rachel over this past year will ever develop into to a true friendship, nor does she even know if she's ready for a friend quite as emotional and unpredictable as Rachel. For the time being though, she's content to sit and let Rachel slump against her, humming _Lean On Me _softly under her breath and imparting what little strength she still has left to give. Because when it comes to matters of estranged mothers and daughters, and of adoptions and broken families, Quinn Fabray can understand far more than she'd ever have wished.

GLEE!

"Quinn?" The voice floats through from the kitchen as Quinn pushes the front door open, followed promptly by the tantalising and unmistakable whiff of baking.

"Yeah, Mom, it's me," Quinn calls in reply, stepping inside, closing the door behind her and dropping her keys onto the hall cabinet.

Judy emerges from the kitchen, rubbing flour-covered hands on her apron, and the picture is so domestic, so _motherly_, that it makes Quinn's heart ache. It aches for abandoned daughters, for missing mothers and for lost fathers. For shattered families. But then her mom steps forward, smiling, asking about her day and pecking her on the cheek, and just like that the ache eases a little.

Quinn hopes one day Rachel's ache will ease a little, too.


End file.
